


A Fielder's Choice

by carryokee



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Baseball, Epistolary, First Time, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryokee/pseuds/carryokee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 11 years playing shortstop for the New Jersey Knights, Danny Williams is traded to the Honolulu Warrior Kings, perpetual cellar dwellers of the American League West and the armpit of major league baseball. With a bum knee and a dwindling batting average, Danny knows his career is in its death throes. But as long as he can walk, he's going to play, and hey, at least Gracie still loves him. When All-Star power-hitting second baseman Steve McGarrett shocks the sports world by turning down a lucrative contract with his current team, the Monterey Bay Seals, to return home and play for the Kings, the team his late father helped build, everything suddenly changes. The Kings aren't the losers they used to be and despite Danny's glass knee, the double play combo of Williams-McGarrett keeps making the nightly highlight reels. Better yet, Danny is hitting again.</p><p>Only there's something Danny and Steve aren't telling anyone: They're more than just teammates. Much more. For Danny at least, it's a huge reason for his recent success and anyway, they're not hurting anyone. Besides, it's really no one's business but theirs. </p><p>Too bad it becomes everyone's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Fielder's Choice

> Article for the “Beyond The Game” feature in _SportsWorld_ magazine, March 2012.
> 
> **A Fielder’s Choice**  
>  By Laura Hills
> 
> The first thing that strikes you about Honolulu is that it doesn’t feel like a baseball town. With its abundant tropical flora and broad strokes of super-saturated color painting everything from crystalline shoreline to crystalline shoreline, it feels more suited to surfing than suicide squeezes, more hang ten than hanging slider.
> 
> But a baseball town it is. Home of the Honolulu Warrior Kings since their debut as an expansion team in 1992 – the San Jose Scorpions of the National League debuted the same year – they’ve taken their place alongside the Tennessee Twisters as the major league’s lovable losers. Why? Well, for starters, they’re a small market team. With less than a quarter the payroll of bigger, flashier teams like Miami and New York – those teams with pockets deep enough to hold all their championship trophies and the egos that go with them – they just can’t compete. They’re a team of newcomers passing through on their way to greener pastures and veterans on the shady sides of their careers. There’s been little team spirit or sense of camaraderie in the clubhouse because no one ever stays long enough to foster either one. Perpetual cellar dwellers, they haven’t had a winning season since their inception, their best season a .500 effort in 2001.
> 
> Until last season. Call it fate. Or destiny. Maybe the stars were just perfectly aligned. Whatever it was, the baseball gods were smiling down on the Warrior Kings. For the first time in their modest history, the Kings were contenders. At the end of July, they were nine games back, the closest they’d ever been that late in the season. By the end of August, they were in first place, stealing the spotlight from the 15-time division champion Portland Bombers. Instead of looking up from the bottom, they were gazing down from the top for the very first time, and the view was unbelievably beautiful. The pitchers were unhittable, the hitters were seeing everything thrown at them, and the middle infielders were running a nightly clinic on how to make the highlight reel. They were the darlings of baseball, David standing toe-to-toe with Goliath, slingshot in hand. Life was good. Life was great.
> 
> And then September happened.

**[2010]**

When Danny learns he’s been traded to Honolulu two months into the season, his immediate gut instinct is to retire right then and there. Just hang up his glove and his cleats and open a chain of steakhouses all along the eastern seaboard. After eleven seasons with the New Jersey Knights, it feels like a betrayal. Sure, he’s on the downward slope of a solid, if not quite dazzling career, but he’s still hitting a respectable .268 (.311 with runners in scoring position, thank you very much) and has a .993 fielding percentage. Not bad for an old man with a bum knee, if he does say so himself. And apparently he _does_ have to, because no one else seems to give a shit.

Except, that is, for the General Manager of the Honolulu Warrior Kings, the armpit of the major leagues. A team whose idea of success is still being around next season. And to make matters worse, they’re in the American League. The _American League_. Home of the designated hitter and the (fucking) New York Militiamen, owners of 25 World Series championships and the team everyone loves to hate – even the other teams.

Three quarters of a bottle of duty free Puerto Rican rum, one expletive-laced voicemail to his agent, and several hours of booze-induced sleep later, he wakes up with a massive hangover and the sudden realization that there is at least one silver lining to this whole thing after all: Gracie lives on Oahu.

If only he’d focused on that earlier, he probably wouldn’t have grout lines etched into his face right now.

+++

There are giant rainbows painted on the walls of the clubhouse. Giant rainbows. On the walls. Danny stares at them for a long moment then closes his eyes, willing himself not to whimper.

“You get used to ’em.”

Danny opens his eyes. The voice belongs to a smiling man in a snug fitting Henley and cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. Danny knows immediately who it is but doesn’t say anything. “Yeah? How long does it take?”

The man’s smile turns wry. “Oh,” he says. “Four, maybe five months.”

Danny looks at them again, then back at the man in front of him. He blinks a few times. “I think my retinas are bleeding.”

The man gives the wall a quick sideways glance. “The trick is not to look directly at them.”

Danny smirks. “Don’t worry.”

The man holds out his hand. “Chin Ho Kelly. Head trainer. Welcome to the Kings, Danny.” There’s an edge of wariness in his voice that wasn’t there before and Danny knows exactly where it’s coming from: Six years ago, Kelly “retired” after being accused of taking money to throw a playoff game. It was all a crock of shit, of course. Danny didn’t believe it then and he still doesn’t. But Kelly took it all without even putting up a fight – something Danny will never understand. Obviously the man had his reasons, though, and Danny can respect that. Chin even found a loophole: if he couldn’t be a player, he could at least work with them instead.

Danny shakes Kelly’s hand and grins. “That no-hitter you pitched against Birmingham in Game 7 was a thing of beauty, man. I remember watching it and thinking I was glad it wasn’t us.”

Chin smiles again, all wariness gone. “The Knights finished in last place that year, didn’t they?”

“An aberration,” Danny says. The mention of his old team still stings a little; two days ago he was still in a Knights uniform. But that was then, right? This is now. And if he wants to play, he’ll learn to live with it. “We went to the Series the next year.” And lost in four straight.

“Fucking Militiamen,” Chin says with a grin.

Danny smiles. “Damn straight.”

+++

His Warrior Kings career begins badly. In his first 20 games, he goes 11 for 62, striking out 22 times and committing eight fielding errors. It doesn’t help that he has absolutely no rapport with his second baseman, either. The shortstop-second baseman relationship is one of the most important in baseball and when it’s lacking, it shows. Even after hours of practice, they just can’t seem to get in sync. So instead of a steel trap, their middle infield is more like a sieve. Grounders that should be double plays or force outs are infield singles. String enough of those together and close games become routs, wins nothing more than pipe dreams.

And to top it all off, his goddamn knee is acting up again. _Still_ , if he was being really honest with himself. Which he isn’t.

He’s the last one left in the clubhouse after yet another loss – 8-3 to the unfortunately named Minneapolis Loons – a half-melted bag of ice taped to his knee and his eyes closed against the too-bright fluorescents. He feels tired and frustrated and pissed off. It’s only been less than a month, but he can honestly say he hates it here. Hates the birds and the flowers and the fucking Pacific Ocean. Hates the crappy little apartment he’s renting because he doesn’t want to get too comfortable and absolutely, positively hates the reality of pineapple on pizza. And he hates their fucking stadium, too, with its craggy infield topography and half-dead turf and non-existent foul territory. He played in nicer stadiums in rookie ball.

Of course, it has occurred to him that perhaps he’s looking for things to hate out of spite. But he still hates them anyway.

Worst of all, Gracie’s in England right now, visiting her grandparents for the next month, two oceans and a continent between them. She’s the only thing on his “Good Things About Hawaii” list.

Even when he was in Jersey and she was here, she never felt this far away.

+++

Six days before the All-Star break, Jack McGarrett, former general manager and current director of baseball operations for the Warrior Kings, dies of a heart attack in his seat behind home plate during the sixth inning of the second game of a day-night doubleheader.

His son Steve, MVP second baseman for the world champion Monterey Bay Seals, flies to Hawaii amid a flurry of sports media to attend his father’s funeral, then flies back to Miami in time to participate in the Home Run Derby. Which he proceeds to win before hitting one out in the fourth inning of the All-Star game, helping propel the National League to a win and home field advantage in the World Series.

Danny watches it all from his sofa with nothing more than a sixer of Longboards and an ice pack for company, nurturing an irrational dislike for McGarrett, still baseball’s golden boy at 35 years old.

Okay, so he’s a little jealous. He’s man enough to admit it.

+++

After that, it’s nothing special. The season ends, to no one’s surprise, with a whimper, the Warrior Kings a dismal 36 games out of first. As far as he’s concerned, the whole thing’s forgettable. He ends up with a .248 batting average, 5 HR, 58 RBI, and 21 errors. Not his worst season ever, but close.

He spends the off-season working with Chin to strengthen his knee and thinking up reasons he should quit.

+++

**[2011]**

**February-March**

He doesn’t quit, of course. He may be stuck in this pineapple-infested hellhole, but at least it’s still the majors, right?

+++

Danny finds it hilarious that the Kings have spring training in Scottsdale, Arizona, when the whole point of Hawaii is its weather. Not that it’s not nice to be back on the mainland, surrounded by land instead of water – sometimes he thinks that if he never sees the ocean again, it’ll be too soon – but it just seems kind of redundant, trading the wet heat of a tropical sauna for the dry heat of a blast furnace. But then again, it’s bad enough paying for travel across the Pacific during the regular season; there’s no way they’re doing it during spring training when half the people on the squad won’t even make the opening day roster. At least that’s what the Warrior Kings’ penny-pinching travel coordinator, Lori Weston, said when he asked her about it. Though she kindly informed him that he was more than welcome to pay for his own travel if her accommodations did not meet his particular standards, smiling as she said it. 

Chin gives Danny a shit-eating grin when he walks into the clubhouse and when Danny silently questions him with an eyebrow raise, Chin just grins wider and disappears into the weight room.

It doesn’t take long to discover the source of Chin’s amusement. It’s hunched in a chair in front of the locker next to Danny’s, tightening the laces on a mitt.

“Steve McGarrett,” Danny says, the name leaving his lips before he can stop it. He feels his fingers clench around the straps of his duffel.

A pair of cool, dark eyes assesses him and he suppresses the urge to squirm under the heavy gaze.

“You’re Danny Williams.”

“Shortstop,” Danny adds stupidly. It sounds like an epitaph: “Daniel Williams: Son. Brother. Father. Shortstop.” 

The man’s mouth curves up at one corner, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “Second baseman,” he says, holding out his hand.

Danny snorts, but shakes Steve’s hand, his eyes falling to the edges of a tattoo peeking out from under Steve’s sleeve. There’s a matching one on Steve’s other arm and when Danny lets go of Steve’s hand and once again meets his gaze, he finds Steve looking back at him with barely concealed amusement.

“Whose wife did you fuck to get stuck here with us?” he asks. He still can’t believe Steve McGarrett – All-Star superstud with an eight-figure salary – signed with the Warrior Kings. When his brother Matt called to tell him about it, he laughed. When his agent called to tell him about it, he laughed. No way in hell, he said to them both. No fucking way. But here the man was, in the flesh. He must’ve given the Kings one hell of a hometown discount.

Steve smiles. “I wanted to come here, believe it or not.”

Danny drops his duffel on the floor in front of his locker and sinks down onto the folding chair in front of it. His knee grinds ominously beneath his patella; he ignores it. He looks sideways at Steve, who’s still watching him. “Punishing yourself for only hitting 38 homers last year? Doing a little penance for your sins?” Danny’s trying to be funny, but something shifts behind Steve’s eyes at the words, his smile fading.

“My dad loved this team,” Steve says. His voice is quiet and Danny instantly feels guilty. He hadn’t known Jack McGarrett that well, had only met the man a couple times, but he knew him to be a quality human being.

“Jesus, man,” he says sheepishly. “I’m sorry. Your dad was one of the good guys.”

“Yeah, he was,” Steve says, nodding. A beat passes before he flashes a brilliant grin. “But he was one hell of a bad negotiator.” His eyes flick to Danny’s right knee, then back to his face. “I mean, who trades three up-and-coming prospects for one washed-up infielder with a bum knee?”

Danny wants to be offended, but Steve’s smile is too contagious. He finds himself returning the gesture, raising his hand to count things off on his fingers. He pokes out his thumb. “One washed-up infielder with a bum knee _and_ —” He wiggles his index finger. “—a case of Dubble Bubble. You forgot the most important part.”

Steve laughs. “Dubble Bubble. The great equalizer.”

Their conversation dissolves into a comfortable silence as Steve continues working on the laces of his glove and Danny unpacks his duffel. He doesn’t keep a lot of personal items in his spring training locker, but there are two things he always takes with him wherever he goes: his Joe Namath bobblehead and the misshapen lump of clay inscribed with the word DANNO that Grace gave him for Father’s Day when she was six years old. He holds the lump of clay in his hands, tracing the crooked letters with the tip of his thumb. Grace is finally back in Hawaii after traveling nearly all summer with Rachel and Stan and now he’s in Arizona. He misses her like crazy.

“Danno, huh?”

Danny looks over at him. “It’s what my daughter calls me,” he says a little defensively.

Steve nods, then reaches over and plucks the lump of clay out of Danny’s hands for closer inspection. Danny almost snatches it away, but when he sees how careful Steve is being with it, how he’s cradling the object in the palm of his hand, he lets him hold on to it.

“Paperweight?” Steve asks, looking over at him.

Danny smiles. “Ashtray, actually.”

Steve looks at the object again. “Of course. I can totally see it.” 

Danny takes the object back from him. “No, you can’t,” he says, laughing. “No one can. But thank you for saying so.” He curls his fingers around the object lovingly. “Sculpting isn’t Gracie’s strong suit. She’s much better at drawing.”

Steve holds his gaze for a second, then says, “I look forward to seeing some of her work.”

Danny doesn’t know what to say. He didn’t expect this, to like him right off the bat; in fact, he’d been cultivating resentment and jealousy all winter in preparation for this very moment. But apparently all that effort was for nothing. 

Steve McGarrett is a good guy. Damn it.

+++

Spring training is always an interesting time. There are those, like Steve and Danny, who are comfortable in the knowledge that they’ll be on the opening day roster no matter how badly they do and therefore go through their days with the relaxed confidence of veterans, and then there are those who walk around so tense they can barely breathe because all their hopes and dreams are resting on their performance over the next few weeks. Only a very few guys will make the big league squad; most will be dealt out to various minor league teams like so many playing cards. It makes for an interesting mix of anxieties and boasting about odd stats in the clubhouse.

Take Thompson, left-handed relief pitcher, whose self-proclaimed specialty of getting left-handed batters to ground to second base will surely (he thinks) make him indispensible to the Warrior Kings. He tells Danny that over his career dating all the way back to his peewee all-star days, he has managed to get lefties to ground to second a sterling 96.3% of the time. Danny’s never bothered to verify this because personal stats are like a guy’s kids – you don’t question or criticize them – and anyway, Danny knows it won’t matter. Thompson’s a good kid with a decent 12-6 curve, but his stuff isn’t big league good – not even by the Kings’ standards – and everyone knows it but him. But Danny doesn’t say that; the kid will find out for himself soon enough, and it’s best to just stay out of it.

Steve, on the other hand, believes in being encouraging, taking on the role of full-on mentor. No matter how busy or tired he is, he always takes the time to answer questions or offer advice or point out a hitch in someone’s swing. The young guys idolize him, hanging on his every word like Younglings listening to Yoda and Danny doesn’t know whether to be jealous or impressed.

He settles for annoyed.

+++

Steve gets hit on the wrist by an errant fastball in the second inning of their first intrasquad game and has to sit out for the rest of it with an icepack taped to his wrist. The pitcher, Adam Charles – nicknamed Toast by his teammates because he always looks stoned (and Danny’s not entirely sure he isn’t half the time) – avoids him completely for the rest of the day until Steve finally takes pity on him and assures him that while there may be a bruise on his wrist, there are no hard feelings, and that despite the rumors, Steve has never had anyone duct taped to a foul pole for plunking him.

After that, all the kids on the team gaze at Steve with the glazed eyes of true believers and Danny rolls his own eyes so far back in his head, he can see his brain.

“They’re just kids, Danno,” Steve says to him when Danny brings it up over a couple of beers at Cork’s later that week. “Let ’em have some fun. This is supposed to be fun, right?”

Danny’s not sure when Steve started calling him Danno, but he’s pretty sure he should put a stop to it before it becomes a habit. And he’ll definitely do that…later. “They’re not just kids, Steven.” On that same note, he’s not sure when he started calling Steve by his full first name. “They’re professional baseball players. And as such, they should stop acting like little leaguers wanting an autograph and focus on doing their jobs.”

Steve smiles. “I once met Hank Aaron and just about wet my pants,” he says. “I was 32.”

Danny smirks. “You’re no Hank Aaron, babe.” He takes a swallow of his beer and sinks lower into the booth.

Steve just looks at him for a moment. “You’re jealous.”

“What?” Danny says, not quite meeting his eyes. “Psh.” Except maybe he is. A little.

“You are.” A slow grin spreads across Steve’s face. “You think they like me better than you and you’re jealous.”

Danny narrows his eyes and looks across the table at Steve. “Striker carries all your shit to and from the dugout for you. Boz washes your car.”

Steve suppresses a smile, but Danny can see it in his eyes. “It’s not a contest, Danny. And besides, I never asked them to.”

Danny sits up, his fingers closing around his nearly empty bottle. “That’s not the point, Steve. You’re encouraging it.”

“How? Please enlighten me.” Steve’s enjoying this, Danny can tell. It’s really fucking annoying.

“By not putting a stop to it!” Danny’s voice carries across the bar and he can feel a few eyes look his direction. He grinds his teeth and lowers his voice. “You and me, we’re the veterans, okay. It’s up to us to act professionally and show the young guys how big league ballplayers carry themselves. Allowing them to do shit for you is setting a bad example, Steven. I mean it.”

The corners of Steve’s mouth twitch. “I,” he says.

Danny blinks. “What?”

“It’s you and I,” Steve says. “You said ‘you and me’.”

Danny just stares at him. He’s putting all the death ray he can into the look, but Steve just looks back at him placidly. “You’re a smart one, you know that? A real fucking genius.” He pulls out his wallet and flops a few bills on the table. “See you at the ballpark.” He slides out of the booth and starts to walk away. A part of him wants Steve to stop him, but that doesn’t happen, and Danny tamps down on the hot flare of disappointment curling in his belly.

He’s almost to his car when he hears Steve’s voice behind him. “Danny, stop.”

Danny closes his eyes, pushing out a breath. When he turns around, Steve is standing just a few feet away between two melted puddles of orange light. “I’m sorry,” Danny says. “I’m being ridiculous.” He shrugs and cracks a half-smile. “It happens sometimes.”

Steve smiles back. “I blame the beer.”

“Thanks,” Danny says, “but I only had one.” He’s feeling better already.

“Yeah,” Steve says, his smile morphing into a smirk. Danny hasn’t known him that long, but he knows that look, and it never means anything good. “But one beer for you is like six for a normal-sized person.”

“Short jokes,” Danny says, deadpan. “So it’s come to this.”

“If the shoe fits,” Steve says. He looks down and Danny’s feet, then back up at his face. “What size do you wear, anyway? Five and a half? Six?”

Danny narrows his eyes. “I’ll remember this, Steven. Don’t think I won’t.”

Steve laughs and jangles his keys. “Oh, I know you will, Danno. In fact, I’m counting on it.”

+++

Two days later, all the young guys are wearing “We ♥ Danny Williams” t-shirts and Danny almost – almost – feels bad about what he does to Steve’s batting gloves right before BP.

“Itching powder, Danny? Really?” Steve’s standing in front of the water cooler, scrubbing his hands furiously under the open spigot. 

Danny’s leaning against the dugout railing with his arms crossed in front of his chest, watching him. “Just another good thing that comes in a small package,” he says, smiling.

Steve’s lips twitch, then curl into a grin. He throws a palmful of water in Danny’s direction, but Danny dances out of the way.

Later, Danny hits a line drive off the top of the left-field fence in the bottom of the third that breaks the tie and puts the Kings ahead 4-2. Steve bums a pair of batting gloves off Steube and strikes out twice in three at-bats. 

+++

The Kings’ spring training hotel is a Best Western just off the interstate near the Scottsdale Sports Complex. In past seasons, Danny has rented an apartment for the entirety of the preseason, but this year he chose to stay in the hotel. He figures if he’s stuck playing for Honolulu, they can at least foot the bill to house him in the spring. The biggest surprise is that Steve chose to stay in the hotel, too, albeit in the biggest suite with the best view – a relative assessment, since the choices are parking lot (worst), interstate (okay), and shopping center (best). Danny’s room is a corner single with a large lumpy bed, a hairline crack in the ceiling running east to west, and a wonderful view of the parking lot. But at least the A/C works and he doesn’t have to share it with anyone.

The night before their flight back to Hawaii, Danny knocks on Steve’s door. He’s not sure why he came up here except that he’s feeling restless and a little sad. Final cuts were made that morning and some of the guys he’d gotten used to seeing over the last few weeks and had let himself grow fond of were already gone, on their way to dusty minor league towns and endless bus rides to game after game in stubborn pursuit of their big league dreams. It’s the same every year – the many becomes the few with surgical precision and the few try not to dwell on it. He’s not sure why it still bothers him after all this time, but it does. Probably because he’s been on the other side, watching his dreams disappear in the rearview.

When Steve opens the door, Danny knows immediately he’s been thinking about it, too. Standing aside to let Danny pass, Steve closes the door behind him and slides the deadbolt into place.

Danny throws himself onto the couch, stretching out on it. He meets Steve’s eyes over the arm. He tries to think of something funny to say, but gives up. “I caught Boz crying in the bathroom,” he says instead. Boz got sent down to the AA team and didn’t take it well.

Steve purses his lips, then walks out of view. Danny hears him moving around in the kitchen. A few moments later, Steve’s standing at the edge of the couch, holding a box in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. On top of the box are two glasses and a couple of plastic forks.

“Move over,” Steve says.

Danny complies, kicking off his shoes and crossing his legs, gritting his teeth at the pain in his knee. “What’s in the box?”

Steve sits down and distributes the glasses and forks, setting the box on the couch and opening it with a flourish. “Cheesecake,” he says, grinning.

Danny spears a huge bite of cheesecake, holding out his glass for Steve to fill. “Dessert and booze? What happened to ‘my body is a temple’ and all that bullshit?” He shoves the fork into his mouth and chews with relish.

“The temple’s closed,” Steve says, spearing his own bite of cheesecake. “Temporarily.”

Danny holds out his glass for Steve to clink. “I’ll drink to that.”

So they do. Until the bottle’s nearly empty. 

Danny falls asleep with his feet in Steve’s lap, Steve’s hand resting warmly on his leg.

+++

**April-May**

The Kings only win nine games in spring training, but despite that, everyone’s happy and confident going into the regular season. The mood in the clubhouse is upbeat and even though every so-called expert is predicting yet another last-place finish for the Warrior Kings, everyone on the team refuses to buy into it. Not that any team ever starts a season expecting to finish in the cellar. But there’s something different in the air this year, something crisp and undefinable. And Danny’s not the only one who feels it.

At the morning presser the day before the season starts, Steve tells the throng of reporters that they can take their preseason predictions and burn them because there’s a new day dawning in the American League West. He says it casually and without bravado, as if he’s reading the instructions for toothpaste out loud, and because he’s the one saying it, no one laughs. Someone from the Times asks him if that’s a guarantee and Steve just smiles and says, “I’ll leave the guarantees to Joe Namath,” bumping Danny’s knee under the table.

Then it’s Danny’s turn. He just smiles and answers for the millionth time the same old question about his knee and the same new question about what it’s like to have Steve McGarrett on the team.

His answer is the same for both: great.

Only one of those answers is a lie. When you’re missing half the cartilage in your right knee, ‘great’ is a relative thing.

+++

Across the diamond along the third base line stand the (fucking) New York Militiamen in their neat gray road uniforms and their clean-shaven faces – a strict team rule – their hands clasped behind their backs as the anthem is sung. Danny knows they’re expecting to sweep this series without even trying – despite all the bullshit their manager said about how the Kings are a tough team, blah, blah, blah – and he wants nothing more than to spoil them, to start the season off already beating everyone else’s expectations. The seats are full today and probably will be all weekend, but he knows that this series will probably be the only time all season that Kings Stadium is full. And it irks him that half the fans in the stands are wearing Militiamen garb. So much for root, root, root for the home team. 

Most of the other half, of course, are wearing shiny new replica Kings jerseys with the name McGarrett on the back. Unsurprisingly, Steve’s adored here. He’s the hometown kid made good, after all, returning home to lead the team his dad helped build to its first winning season. Even Danny admits it’s a terrific story.

When the anthem is over, they head back to the dugout to grab their gloves. Steve catches up with him at the bottom step.

“Let’s get these fuckers,” he says, smiling, throwing his arm around Danny’s neck. “What do you say?”

“Hell yes,” Danny replies, grinning.

+++

Steve lives on the beach. Of course he does. He even has a surfboard. It’s so cliché, it makes Danny’s teeth hurt.

“So,” Danny says from the open doorway as Steve grills steaks on the back porch. It’s Sunday evening, they’ve just swept the Militiamen in the opening series, and they’re celebrating the Kings’ first 3-0 start in team history. Outside, the tide is rising, the waves breaking against the sand ever closer to the house. “A surfboard, huh? Isn’t that sort of thing explicitly forbidden in your contract?”

Steve meets his eyes. “It’s my sister’s.”

“You mean there are more of you?”

Steve smiles. “Just me and Mary—”

“Mary and I.”

That elicits a smirk. “She lives on the mainland.”

Danny steps out onto the porch. The breeze is warm and unlike the breeze in Jersey, doesn’t carry even the faintest scent of garbage. It’s one of the few things he’s added to his “Good Things About Hawaii” list, right after ‘Grace’ and ‘malasadas.’ 

“Lucky girl,” he says. The impact of his statement is lessened, however, by the involuntary rumble of his stomach. In his defense, he hasn’t eaten a thing since before the game and the steaks smell divine.

Steve looks at him out of the corner of his eye, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hungry?”

“A little,” Danny says. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

“Do you know where the refrigerator is?”

Danny smirks. “You mean that big silver thing with the doors on it?”

“You just described your car, Danny. And my toolbox,” Steve says.

Danny raises his eyebrows. “You have a toolbox?” He grins. “Do you keep nails in it?”

“Of course.”

“And a hammer?”

“I have a hammer or two.”

“What about socket wrenches?”

Steve stops poking at the steaks to look Danny in the eye. “I keep all kinds of things in it, Danno. I’m very good with my hands.” 

Danny’s eyes widen at that, then he snorts. “Says the guy who bobbled that easy grounder in the third today.”

“We still turned it, though, didn’t we?”

Danny grins. “Thanks to me. I have a beautiful pivot.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Yes, Danny. You’re a big damn hero. Now go grab us a couple beers before I accidentally drop your steak in the sand.”

Dinner segues into two chairs on the beach, Danny’s feet buried in the sand up to his ankles. His eyes are half closed against the sunset and if he was any more relaxed, he’d be dead.

“I really hate Hawaii,” he says, cutting his eyes sideways at Steve.

Steve shifts beside him and Danny can feel Steve looking at him. “How can you hate Hawaii? It’s a paradise.”

Danny snorts and turns his head to meet Steve’s eyes full-on in the pink-gold light. “More like the ninth circle of hell.”

Steve smiles. “I suppose New Jersey is the Garden of Eden.”

Danny nods. “It is called the Garden State,” he says. “What more proof do you need?”

Steve shakes his head, then looks back out over the water. “I loved Monterey, but it’s nothing like this place. Hawaii is home, you know?”

Danny watches him in silence – the way the light from the setting sun brings out the angles of his face, the way he closes his eyes and sinks down lower in his chair, his hands dangling loosely over the arms of it – and realizes with sudden clarity that he now has another thing to add to his “Good Things About Hawaii” list.

+++

The key to a solid middle infield is a good double play combination and if ESPN’s “Top Ten Plays of the Week” is anything to go by – and depending on who you ask, that’s iffy – then the Warrior Kings’ combo of Williams-McGarrett is one of the best in the business. For four solid weeks in May, they make the top 3 and when the press asks them to explain the secret of their success, they each say basically the same thing.

Steve: “A lot of it is luck. Being in the right place at the right time. But it’s also knowing that Danny is there. He’s a great shortstop. He knows the game, knows his position, knows how to make adjustments. We also kinda know what the other’s thinking, which helps. We can read each other’s thoughts.”

Danny: “He said that? [laughs] Well, yeah. He’s right. I mean, it’s like this. You gotta know what the other guy’s gonna do, you gotta be able to anticipate which way he’s gonna move and where he likes to feed the ball, how he likes it fed to him. There’s an element of trust there. Steve and I…we’ve been playing this game a long time, you know? And, uh, yeah. We work very well together.”

+++

Steve attracts more than his fair share of baseball Annies. No matter what city they’re in, no matter what restaurant or bar or nightclub, there’s always a collection of women willing to do nearly anything to get Steve to take them back to whatever hotel is serving as home for the night and make them another notch on his belt. He’s never picked one up, as far as Danny knows, and Danny figures he knows pretty well since they go most places together on the road. Steve is curiously close-lipped about his personal life, even to Danny, and Danny can respect that. 

Right now, Steve’s telling the young guys with a perfectly straight face that sex is a distraction during the season, especially on the road, and since they all think he’s a god among men, most of them are listening rapturously. Add to that the fact that the Kings are on an eight-game road winning streak, and Steve’s statement about the advantages of abstinence sounds like chiseled-in-granite wisdom. Not that they’re exactly going to follow it to the letter – they’re young professional athletes, after all – but Steve’s basically just fucking with them anyway.

“Orgasms are the devil, huh?” Danny asks him after the rest of the group has disbursed to roam the city before curfew kicks in. They’re in Kansas City and Danny’s drinking club soda with lime because he has a headache. “You sound like Sister Agnes back at St. Joe’s. She made me so scared of sex, I’m surprised I ever had any.”

Steve smiles. “I’d doubt you’d ever gotten laid if it wasn’t for Grace.” He’d switched to water about an hour before in what Danny could only assume was some sort of veteran middle infielder solidarity and takes a long sip of it now.

Danny makes a face. “Never use the words ‘laid’ and ‘Grace’ in the same sentence ever again.”

Steve laughs. “You don’t want to be a grandpa, Danno?”

“Not for at least thirty years.” Danny slides deeper into the booth and props his right leg on the seat next to Steve, grunting softly at the pain in his knee.

Steve studies his face for a moment. “What does Chin say?”

Danny twists his face in distaste. “Chin’s a fucking sadist. He should work for the CIA interrogating prisoners.” He shifts and bites back a grimace. “It just needs a little ice.”

Steve’s hand comes to rest gently on Danny’s bad knee. No pressure, no probing, just warm, solid weight. “You should ask Joe for a couple days off,” he says quietly, holding Danny’s eyes.

Danny manages to maintain eye contact for a beat or two before looking away. “I’m fine,” he says. 

But they both know he’s lying. 

+++

His first year in AA, Danny tore his ACL, which required surgery to repair and kept him out the rest of the season. He didn’t even get to travel with the team, instead spending the summer moping around his parents’ house and waxing pessimistic about his future in baseball. He’d never make the bigs. No one wanted a gimp on their infield trying to turn double plays. He might as well learn a trade, like welding or something. But after the moping receded, his determination came back and he healed. And halfway into the following season, he was promoted to AAA. A year after that, he was invited to spring training by the big club and was in the majors that April, playing shortstop for the Knights.

Two years after that, he went under the knife again. Same knee. That’s when the doctors told him his cartilage was slowly degenerating. They suggested knee replacement, but Danny wasn’t having it. How long until it’s all gone? he’d asked. And the answer they’d given him was good enough.

So what if he wouldn’t be able to walk in ten years? He could still walk now, and that was all that mattered.

That was nine years ago.

+++

> You won’t find another place like Kamekona’s – and no one else quite like its eponymous proprietor – anywhere in Hawaii. With its eclectic menu ranging from the deliciously simple spicy shrimp bowl to more exotic fare like the jackfruit-mango shave ice, Kamekona’s is required dining for locals and tourists alike. The décor itself is like a museum of Hawaiian history. Ancient weapons hang next to old road signs, handmade textiles drape around battered wooden surfboards – one with an ominous bite-shaped chunk missing – and the usual photographic collection of famous actors, athletes, and artists posing with Kamekona himself are displayed with obvious care and pride on every wall.
> 
> It’s obvious, though, where Kamekona’s true passion lies – or one of them, at least. Front and center, right above the bar so that it’s the first thing you see when you walk through the front door, is what can only be described as a shrine to the gods of baseball. Or more specifically, to the Honolulu Warrior Kings, which for Kamekona is the same thing. He’s been a season ticket holder for each of the team’s last ten seasons, one of those rare individuals whose passion is so pure, absolutely nothing can tarnish it – not even the heartbreaking could-have-beens of the 2011 season, when it seemed like everything was on track for a magical season, everything falling into place just right to allow the Kings their long-awaited moment of glory, their day in the sun, only to see it all slip away.
> 
> When I ask him to describe his disappointment at seeing his team climb so high just to crash so painfully right before the finish line, he simply smiles. “Disappointed? Nah.” He turns and plucks a baseball from the shelf behind the bar, just one of many adorning his shrine. At first glance it’s indistinguishable from the rest, just another baseball, but Kamekona’s grin says otherwise. “I caught this foul ball the first game of last season. It was Steve McGarrett’s first at-bat as a King. He hit it right to me like he wanted me to have it.”
> 
> Steve McGarrett is the Warrior Kings’ star second baseman, the prodigal son of Oahu whose sentimental return to the team his father built is the stuff of legend. At least to those who care. And at Kamekona’s you only have to look up from your seat at the bar to see just how much its owner cares. In the center of his shrine, in an obvious place of honor, are three photographs. McGarrett is in the one on the right. Former Kings shortstop Danny Williams is in the one on the left. The one in the middle is a shot of them both, smiling from one of the tables on Kamekona’s back deck, the Pacific Ocean spread out behind them.
> 
> “It’s easy to remember the end and all the crap that went with it,” Kamekona says, cradling his cherished souvenir in one giant hand. “But I like to remember the rest.” He taps the center photo of his baseball triptych with his knuckle, looking at it with dreamy admiration. “Those guys,” he says. “I’ve never seen anything like ’em on a baseball field. They were special together.” He looks up and smiles. “Still are.”
> 
> I follow his gaze. In the doorway stands Danny Williams, right on cue.

+++

**June-July**

Joe White, their manager, likes to say that managing the Kings is like being punished for sins he hasn’t even committed yet, but everyone on the team right on down to the batboys knows there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Joe’s managed the Kings since the beginning – nearly 20 years – and while his overall record with the team is only 1549-1673 (a .481 winning percentage), he never treats his players like anything less than winners.

Everyone loves Joe. Even when he tells them things they don’t want to hear.

Case in point: Danny’s knee.

“It’s fine,” Danny tells him for the trillionth time. “It hurts sometimes, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” The expanse of Joe’s desk seems even more vast when the news travelling across it is bad. Danny consciously tells himself not to clench his fists or grit his teeth.

Joe’s mouth curves up a fraction as he nods. His dark eyes are sympathetic, but Danny knows he’s losing this argument. “Joe—”

The lift of Joe’s fingers from the surface of his desk silences him. Joe turns his head to look at Chin, who’s sitting in the chair next Danny. Next to Chin is Chin’s wife, Malia, the Kings’ team doctor. “Chin, tell me the truth. Can Danny play?”

Chin shifts in his chair and shoots Danny a look out of the corner of his eye. Danny watches him closely, trying to read the man’s face. His eyes flick to Malia, who meets his gaze and smiles at him. He tries to return the gesture, but it dies on his lips, and he stares back at Chin’s profile, trying to will him into telling Joe what Danny wants to hear.

“Well,” Chin says, “there’s a lot of looseness in his knee to the point that even when he’s just bending it, you can hear it grinding under his kneecap. And yet, he manages to get a surprising amount of functionality with it. But it’s the fluid build-up that bothers me. There’s a lot of swelling and inflammation—”

Danny jumps in. “The cortisone helps with that. One shot before the game and I’m good to go.”

“But you’re damaging it more and more every time you go out there, Danny.” This from Malia, who until this moment, Danny used to like. “You need to rest it. At least for a while.”

But Danny knows she really means forever. She told him at his last physical that she can’t believe he’s still standing. “I’ll rest it when I can’t walk anymore,” Danny spits out, glaring at her. He know she’s just doing her job, but she’s fucking with his life here. “What the fuck do you know about it, anyway? It’s my goddamn knee. I know better than anyone if I can still use it or not.”

Chin opens his mouth to defend his wife, but Malia touches his arm, shaking her head. “Danny,” she says softly. “Please listen to me. Your knee is a mess. At this point, I’m convinced the only thing keeping you upright is sheer willpower. Surgery for anything less than a knee replacement will only delay the inevitable.”

Danny opens his mouth to speak, but she stops him with a gesture. “But. I know you want to finish the season. I know you want to play every day, but Danny, that’s never going to happen if you keep this up. And frankly, it won’t happen anyway. One day you’re going to go out there and you’re going to shift to your right to field a routine grounder and your knee is just going to give out. And when that happens, there’s no other alternative but knee replacement. We can’t keep putting band aids on it, Danny. You know that.”

Danny feels his eyes sting and turns away, looking out the window of Joe’s office. He wishes, for once, he could see the ocean, but all he sees is an empty parking lot.

Moments pass until the silence becomes almost unbearable. Then Joe says, “I’m putting you on the DL, Danny. Fifteen days.”

Danny knows the words were coming, but they still sting. He turns his head to look at Joe across the desk. “Joe, I…” He wants to say, I have to play or I’ll go crazy. He wants to say, I’m not ready to throw in the towel. But he won’t say those things out loud. He won’t put a voice to them. So instead he just nods, curls his hands around the arms of his chair, and pushes himself up. “Can I go now?”

Joe gives him such a paternal look of sympathy, Danny wants to scream. “It’s not permanent, son. When you come back, shortstop will be waiting for you.”

“Sure, Joe. Are we done here?”

When Joe nods, Danny turns to leave without looking back.

+++

Steve catches up with Danny in the parking lot, stopping his furious march across the pavement with a hand around his biceps. “Danny—”

Danny gives him an angry look as he jerks his arm away. “Don’t fucking say it, Steven, okay? Whatever it is, just…don’t.” He starts to walk away again, digging in his pocket for his keys. He wants to punch something until his knuckles are bloody, but the last thing he needs is a broken hand keeping him out until August.

Steve’s next to him again, easily keeping pace, their steps falling quickly into sync. “How long?” Steve asks.

Danny doesn’t answer at first, just pulls out his keys and jams the unlock button with his thumb, the lights on his Camaro flashing twice. He jerks open the driver’s door. All he wants is to throw himself behind the wheel and get the hell out of there, to just drive until he can’t anymore, but in an instant, the anger drains out of him and all he can do is stand there gripping the door, watching the heat ripple a few inches above the pavement.

“Fifteen days,” he says, and saying the words out loud makes it sound even longer than it did inside his head.

Steve doesn’t say anything, just slips his hand over Danny’s on the edge of the door and gives it a squeeze, letting it linger a moment before pulling away. Danny looks up at him. Steve’s still in his workout clothes: sweat-stained t-shirt and dark blue Kings shorts, worn running shoes on his feet. He has an endless supply of brand new sneakers at his disposal – he’s done a few ads for Nike and gets them for free – but he chooses to wear his old ones. Something about being broken in and familiar.

Broken in. Broken down. Danny knows the feeling.

“Let’s get you drunk,” Steve says suddenly, grinning like it’s the best idea he’s ever had.

Danny raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“Alcohol,” Steve says. “Lots of it. Ingested by you under my supervision.”

Danny opens his mouth to protest, but closes it again. “Yes, please,” he says.

+++

“Smooth Dog,” Danny says, repeating the words slowly, drawing out the vowels. It’s funny. “Smooooth Doooog.” He giggles. He’s more than a little drunk.

“I never should have told you that,” Steve says beside him, perfectly sober. It’s high tide, the surf crashing so close to Steve’s back porch that Danny thinks he could dive right off the steps and into the water. 

“No, no,” Danny says, nodding like his Namath bobblehead. “You absolutely should’ve. You should tell me everything.” He looks over at Steve, his mouth tilting up into a crooked smile. “Got any other secrets you want to share?”

Steve meets his eyes. The house is dark behind them and Steve’s face is half in shadow, his eyes dark pools as he looks unblinkingly at Danny for a few long moments. Then he smiles, his teeth glinting in the moonlight. “2009,” he says. “The Seals were on the road playing the Knights in a four-game series. We’d already taken two of the first three, and you guys were trying to split the series by winning the last game. Do you remember?”

It takes Danny a moment to absorb the words, his sluggish mind slipping gears as it arranges them in a coherent order. After a moment, the memory is front and center, as clear as if it happened yesterday. “Yeah,” he says, smiling. “We were down two runs going into the ninth and your closer hadn’t blown a save all season.” His smile widens. “Until that day.” Danny’s never really been a homerun hitter, but that day, his line drive into the left field seats got the Knights’ winning rally started. They ended up beating the Seals 7-6.

“I called that homerun, you know,” Steve says.

Danny smirks. “Bullshit.”

“I’m serious,” Steve insists. “When you came up to bat, I just had this feeling you were gonna hit it out. And then you did.” 

Danny laughs. “Well, if you ever get any other feelings about me, be sure to let me know, okay?” 

Steve goes still. For a moment, his look is so intense that Danny’s smile fades. “Sure thing, Danny,” Steve says, his voice nearly lost in the sound of the surf. His smile flashes briefly, then disappears just as quickly.

Something shifts in an instant. The moonlight painting Steve’s face, the close, solid nearness of him, make Danny’s breath catch. Pure, clean lust coils in his belly then, and he feels his pulse begin to throb acutely in his neck. He remembers this, what it feels like, the suddenness of it, the way it hits you like a fist to the gut and leaves you breathless. He almost laughs with the reality of it. The silence drags on until it buzzes like white noise inside his head, drowning out everything else. He realizes his hands are trembling and curls them into fists against his thighs. Steve just sits there looking at him, and Danny can’t breathe.

“Jesus, I’m drunk,” he suddenly blurts, breaking the moment, shattering it like sugar glass. He stands, swaying a little, and grips the railing in support, looking out at the ocean. He hears a chair scrape across the floor and knows that Steve’s behind him, just standing there, close enough to touch Danny, close enough for Danny to touch if he wanted to. 

“Danny.”

Danny closes his eyes. Fuck.

“I’m going swimming,” he says suddenly, not thinking, needing to move. He tugs at his shirt, pulling it off and throwing it to the floor. He fumbles with his shoes next, toeing one off and then the other, kicking them aside.

“Danny, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Steve’s voice is right behind him.

But Danny ignores him. He has to get away from here, away from Steve. He has to clear his head. He stumbles down the steps to the sand, opening his jeans and pushing them down. He steps out of them, leaving them where they are as he makes his way to the water, the surf splashing up his legs. The water’s warm against his skin. He can hear Steve calling his name. He doesn’t turn around, just walks into the water up to his waist and dives beneath the surface. The salt burns his eyes, but he pushes forward, moving, moving, his shoulders working, feet kicking, farther and farther. It’s dark above him, darker below, and his lungs are burning, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Something brushes against his belly, startling him, and he gasps, accidentally inhaling a mouthful of water. He sputters, coughing as he tries to keep his head above the surface. His eyes sting and he can’t see clearly. His feet can’t touch the bottom. Panic begins to claw at him and he’s angry, angry at his own stupidity. He tries to call out but can’t catch his breath.

Suddenly there’s an arm around him, strong and solid, and Steve’s voice in his ear, warm and close, and he feels himself being dragged. He wraps his fingers around that strength and holds on, letting himself be carried, concentrating on pulling air into his lungs and the solid weight pressed against him.

“Put your feet down, Danny. Stand up.” Steve’s voice sounds vaguely angry as it filters into Danny’s brain through a haze, but he does as instructed. The water’s only up to his knees and Danny lets Steve guide him onto the beach, Steve’s arm now wrapped around his waist to steady him.

Steve helps him sit. The sand beneath him is still warm from the sun, and he leans forward between his knees, taking in careful lungfuls of air, coughing a little around each breath. Steve kneels in front of him and grips Danny’s shoulders, fingertips pressing reassuringly into Danny’s skin.

“Are you okay?” Steve’s breathing hard, but his voice is soft. The anger seems to be gone.

Danny looks up. Steve’s skin glitters with beads of water and Danny has the sudden urge to run his fingers through them. The look on Steve’s face is a mix of relief and worry. “I’m alright,” Danny says, dragging a hand over his face. “A little embarrassed, but nothing fatal.” His voice is hoarse from all the coughing. He tries to smile, but doesn’t quite make it.

“God, Danny. I thought…” Steve lets out a breath and pushes Danny’s hair off his forehead, brushing his thumb slowly across Danny’s eyebrow before sinking down next to him in the sand. They sit there in silence, their shoulders just touching, and Danny lets himself feel the connection, that point of contact like a bloom of heat beneath his skin. He watches the surf crash just a few feet from their toes, grateful that Steve isn’t asking him anything, making him talk. He’s not sure what he would say right now if he opened his mouth.

+++

He spends the night on Steve’s sofa.

When he wakes up the next morning, it’s to a pounding head and the sound of Steve’s shower running upstairs. On the coffee table is a large glass of water and three Advil. Sitting up, he dutifully swallows the pills. Then he props his head in his hands, closes his eyes against the creeping sun, and tries not to think about last night. 

He’s still sitting that way when Steve comes downstairs, the sound of bare feet padding softly across the floor. Then there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Come on,” Steve says. “I’ll make you some breakfast.”

The thought of food makes Danny’s stomach clench and he swallows with effort. He doesn’t look up or even open his eyes. “I’d rather choke on my own vomit,” he moans, and thinks that might be an actual possibility if he tries to eat right now.

“It’s either real food or my grandmother’s famous hangover cure. Two parts vegetable oil, one part Pepto Bismol, and a dash of Tabasco for taste,” Steve says. “Your choice.”

Danny’s stomach roils again and he finally looks up, squinting at Steve with as much hatred as he can muster in his weakened state. “I really hate you right now.”

Steve smiles. “That alcohol didn’t drink itself, you know.”

“It was your idea.”

“I prefer to think of it as your idea with me as your proxy so as to limit your culpability.”

Danny shakes his head and immediately regrets it. He presses his palms to his temples and closes his eyes again in misery. “I only understood, like, four of those words.”

Steve grabs Danny’s arms and pulls him up, holding him steady when he sways a little. Danny blinks blearily, forcing his eyes to focus. Steve’s eyes are intently scanning his face, studying him closely. This close up, he smells like soap and toothpaste. His hair’s still wet from the shower and he hasn’t shaved yet. Danny’s fingertips itch to touch his face.

And in that moment, Danny realizes that last night’s…aberration wasn’t really an aberration at all. Because even now, sober and hung over, Danny still really wants to kiss him.

“Tell you what,” Steve says, holding Danny out at arms’ length. “I’ll take pity on you. Go upstairs, take a shower, sleep some more. You can use my bed. When you wake up again, then I’ll make you breakfast.” He smiles.

Danny just nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He swallows. “Thanks.”

The shower tiles are cool against his hands as he stands beneath the hot water, trying to will away his fledgling erection. With a frustrated sound, he finally gives up and just lets his mind wander where it’s been wanting to since last night. He wraps his hand around his dick and feels it harden further, closing his eyes against the images his mind is too easily providing, choking back the sounds bubbling up in his throat.

It doesn’t take long. He comes with his open mouth pressed against the tile, his ragged breaths muted by the sound of the water. Then he turns the tap to cold and stands under the stream until he’s shivering.

Steve’s sheets are soft when Danny crawls between them, and he falls asleep almost immediately. When he wakes up again, Steve makes him breakfast just like he promised. Eggs and bacon and toast. 

Danny eats slowly as he drinks his coffee and pretends like nothing’s changed.

+++

Four days into his mandated exile, the final game of the Kings’ series against the Phoenix Cobras is rained out. Which is just as well, since Danny needs a break from the torture of watching someone younger and faster play shortstop as well as he does, maybe better. Besides, it’s his weekend with Grace and he could use the extra time with her. Not to mention time to sort out this new…thing with Steve. About Steve. Around Steve. Whatever. Sorting out is definitely called for. And a little perspective. Maybe even a shrink.

“Mandy likes Mulan, but I think Ariel is the best princess,” she says around a mouthful of popcorn. She and Danny are curled up on the couch together, a bowl of popcorn wedged between them. They’ve been mainlining Disney princess movies for the last several hours and are currently watching _The Little Mermaid_.

“That’s because she’s half fish, half girl. Just like you.” He smiles over at her. She’s still in her peejays, her bare feet poking out from beneath the chenille blanket, her big eyes glued to the screen. On the coffee table in front of them is an empty box that once held half a dozen malasadas and an assortment of DVDs, all of them Disney and all of them so annoyingly cheerful, Danny wants to reanimate old Walt’s corpse just so he can punch him in the face.

Grace rolls her eyes without looking at him. “I’m not half fish, Daddy. I don’t have a tail.”

Danny touches her hair, gently drawing his fingers through the tangles. “You swim like a fish, though. You’re my little sea monkey.” He lightly traces the shell of her ear before pulling his hand away. Grace doesn’t respond, just keeps on watching.

A half hour later, Danny’s nearly asleep when there’s a knock on the door.

“I’ll get it!” Grace is halfway off the couch by the time she gets the third word out and Danny has to grab the back of her pajama shirt to keep her from running to the door. 

“Cool your jets, missy,” he says, standing up with a grimace. He’s spent most of the day with his knee propped up and finally putting weight on it produces needlepoints of pain. “How many times have I told you not to answer the door? What if there’s an ax murderer on the other side?”

Grace gives him a look that’s so precisely Rachel, Danny nearly breaks out in a cold sweat. “I don’t think ax murderers knock first, Danno,” she says, snuggling back into the corner of the couch and reaching for the popcorn bowl. Sarcasm from a nine-year-old; she’s definitely his daughter. She turns her attention back to the movie and Danny knows he’s already been forgotten.

There’s another knock as Danny limps his way to the door. In the privacy of his own home, he doesn’t bother trying to hide it. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he says loudly, pressing his eye to the peephole. When he sees who it is, his stomach clenches. So much for perspective. He opens the door. “Unless you’re here to tell me that my fifteen days are up and I can play again, go away.”

Steve smiles. “Now, Danny. You don’t mean that. Not after I came all this way.”

“It takes you fifteen minutes to drive here from your house, Steven. And that’s _with_ hitting all the lights.”

“It’s the thought that counts?” Steve’s still smiling and Danny finds it a bit unnerving how it makes his heart speed up a little. Last time he checked, he wasn’t a 14-year-old girl.

Steve’s hands are behind his back and his smile morphs into a full-out grin. “Besides,” he says, “I come bearing gifts.” He then pulls his hands out with a flourish. In one there’s a six-pack of Longboards, in the other an array of baseball movies.

Danny reads the titles. “ _Rookie of the Year_ , Steve? Really?”

“What?” Steve asks. “It’s a classic. The kid kinda looks like Toast, don’t you think?”

Danny shakes his head. “Fine. Yes to the movies, no to the beer. At least for now. Grace is here.”

Steve’s eyes dart towards the living room, then back to Danny’s face. “Shit, Danny. I forgot you had her. I don’t want to intrude. I’ll go…” He takes a step back.

Danny grabs his arm. “Don’t be an idiot. You’re more than welcome to hang out with us. And your movies will be a nice change.” He leans in. “One more talking animal and I’ll take a bat to my TV.” He smiles and looks up to meet Steve’s eyes. Steve smells like warm skin and laundry soap and Danny steps back, letting go of Steve’s arm and clearing his throat. “Besides, if Grace finds out you were here and left without even saying hello, she’ll never forgive me.”

Steve gives him a quizzical look. “You? Why not me?”

“Because as her father it is my duty to ensure her happiness. And if I don’t do everything short of clubbing you senseless and dragging you into the house so that she can see you, I will have failed in my duty. So really, you’d be doing Grace a huge disservice by leaving.” Danny steps aside to make room for Steve to pass, sweeping his arm out to the side in a grand gesture.

“Well,” Steve says, smiling again. “For Gracie’s sake.” He walks past Danny into the apartment and Danny reaches out, snagging the six-pack from Steve’s hand as he passes. Their fingers tangle briefly on the exchange and Danny feels a jolt like a static shock, a warm flush creeping beneath his skin. He’s had a few days to almost get used to the idea of being in…something with Steve, but he’s still working on the whole platonic touching thing.

Steve gives him a funny look that lingers in silence a beat too long. “Go say hi to Grace,” Danny says, covering over the awkward moment. “I’ll put these in the fridge.” And with that, Danny leaves Steve to fend for himself as he disappears into the kitchen.

He puts the beer away, then stands there with his eyes closed, his hands pressed flat against the countertop for several long seconds, just breathing.

+++

Steve carries Grace to bed and Danny tucks her in. The whole thing’s so painfully domestic, Danny can hardly breathe for a moment and he takes an extra few seconds to kiss her goodnight while he catches his breath.

He finally turns to Steve, who’s standing silhouetted in the doorway. “She’s down for the count,” he whispers, stepping into the hallway and pulling the door closed behind him. He meets Steve’s eyes and smiles. “How ’bout that beer?”

“Lead the way,” Steve says, following Danny into the kitchen.

Danny limps his way to the refrigerator. He’s been trying to minimize it in front of Steve even though he knows it’s pointless. Steve knows better than most how fucked up Danny’s knee is, how it kills him sometimes even to bend and tie his cleats, much less make the pivot at second before throwing to first. 

His fingers are on the door handle when he hears Steve say his name and he knows what Steve’s next words will be before he even says them.

“Don’t,” Danny says, heading him off at the pass. He can’t look at Steve, concentrating instead on opening the door and grabbing two beers. When he turns around, Steve’s leaning against the doorway, looking so intently at him, he wonders if Steve can see into his brain.

“Danny,” he says again. “Come on. Talk to me.”

Danny shakes his head, walking across the kitchen and shoving a bottle at him. “Drink this and shut up, okay? I’m fine.”

Steve takes the beer, but keeps his eyes on Danny’s face. “I get it, you know.”

Danny almost laughs, but the sound that comes out is more painful than that. He feels like they’re having two different conversations. “No, Steven, you don’t.” He pushes past Steve, twisting the bottle cap off and throwing it angrily into the dining room, where it skids across the table and lands somewhere near the wall.

“You’re scared,” Steve says behind him. 

His voice is too soft, too close and Danny takes another step forward to put some distance between them. He’s angry all of a sudden and he doesn’t want to be. Anger has never gotten him anywhere but in trouble, but he can’t help it. Lately, whenever he looks into the future, everything is blurry and out-of-focus.

He takes a drink of his beer, but it tastes wrong and he sets it down roughly on the table, gripping the back of the chair as he closes his eyes. Everything he thought he’d been able to tuck away in the last few days breaks loose again, hovering just beneath the surface. “What am I gonna do?” he whispers, the words burning his throat. He doesn’t mean to say them out loud, but there they are, out in the open.

He hears the click of a bottle being set on the counter and a moment later there’s a hand on the back of his neck, warm and soothing. “Danny, listen to me. This isn’t the end. I know it may feel like it now, but—”

Danny turns, pushing Steve’s hand away, feeling the slide of fingers across his skin. “What the fuck do you know about it, huh? Your body’s never betrayed you a day in your life. You’ll be an All-Star until you’re fifty. You go out there every day and excel. I just—” His voice is strained and he bites at the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. “I just want to be able to play again. I—” He stops himself, locking away the words before he says something they’ll both regret.

Then Steve’s hand is on his neck again, each fingertip like a point of heat on Danny’s skin. “You will, Danny. You have to.” The words are spoken so softly, they’re almost a whisper. “I need you out there.”

Everything suddenly distills down to this: the weight of the ensuing silence and the warmth of Steve’s hand. Danny feels them both pressing into his skin. He can see the thump of Steve’s pulse just above the collar of his t-shirt and wants nothing more at that moment than to press his lips to it, to feel the steady rhythm of it against his tongue, to taste the life it represents. And as if he reads Danny’s mind, Steve drags his thumb across Danny’s neck, pressing the tip of it against the steady thump of Danny’s own pulse. It’s racing and Steve’s eyes are on him and Danny’s mind is swimming. 

Steve just watches him, eyes searching.

Danny blinks first, licking his lips and pulling Steve’s hand away. “Listen to me,” he says, running a hand over his face. “You’d think I had a brain tumor or something.” He tries to laugh, but the sound is forced and awkward, and he pushes past Steve into the living room. “You wanna watch another movie? I vote for _Eight Men Out_.” He starts shuffling blindly through the stack of DVDs on the coffee table, not even reading the titles. He just needs to keep moving. “Though why we’re watching baseball movies when we’re baseball players beats the hell out of me.” He’s rambling and he knows it. He clamps his mouth shut with effort and refuses to look at Steve.

“Danny.”

Danny stops shuffling and turns, forcing himself to crack a smile. Steve is standing there in the living room doorway, taking up too much space. And that’s the problem, Danny thinks. Steve’s just too damn…much. He’s everywhere at once. Danny feels shaky and vulnerable and confused. He wants to be alone so he can think, but he doesn’t want Steve to leave. “Is that a no to _Eight Men Out_ , then? How ’bout something funny, like _Major League_?”

Steve doesn’t answer, just stands there looking at Danny with those unreadable dark eyes of his. He says, “What just happened here?”

Danny barely breathes. He can’t do this. His instincts are telling him to run, but he can’t. “What do you mean? Nothing happened. I just had a little meltdown, but I’m fine now. Really.” He can hear the note of pleading in his own voice. Please let this go, Steven. Please. I can’t do this. I can’t lose you.

“Bullshit,” Steve says. “Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me.” A few seconds of heavy silence tick past. “The other night at my house…” He shakes his head slightly. “I let it go then. But Danny…” His voice is thick and Danny can see him swallow. “I can’t let it go now.”

Danny looks away because he’s always been a terrible fucking liar and he really needs Steve to believe him in this. He really needs Steve to play along. He turns back to the pile of movies on the coffee table, starts to stack them neatly, one by one. “Steve. Honestly, I don’t know—”

Suddenly Steve’s hand is gripping his arm, pulling him up, and Danny turns his head, meets his eyes. Steve just stands there watching him, his hand on Danny’s arm, something dark and raw crowding behind his eyes. He’s standing so close, Danny can smell him, can hear the sound of his breathing. His eyes flick to Steve’s mouth and he swallows, forcing himself to look up again. Jesus Christ, he is so gone for this guy.

Then before Danny can even take another breath, Steve’s kissing him, his lips warm and insistent. There’s a second of stunned shock that freezes Danny’s blood, but then it’s like a dam breaks, filling his body with heat. He makes a hungry noise low in his throat and opens his mouth, curling one hand around the back of Steve’s neck, holding on, wanting more, more. Steve’s hands are on either side of Danny’s face, thumbs pressing into his temples, fingers in his hair, and his mouth opens wider against Danny’s, the tips of their tongues just touching.

And then Danny just…stops.

He breaks the kiss, pushing Steve away, his hand slipping slowly from Steve’s neck. He draws his trembling fingers across his mouth and they come away wet. He concentrates on breathing. When he drags the tip of his tongue across his lips, he swears he can taste Steve there.

“Steve…” He doesn’t know what to say. Steve’s lips are wet and he’s breathing heavily and Danny doesn’t know what to say. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This—

“Fuck. Danny.” The words are choked and for the first time since they met, panic flares in Steve’s eyes. He touches his lips, biting out a muted laugh, but to Danny’s ears, it sounds more like pain. His eyes never leave Danny’s.

“What happens now?” Danny asks. He can feel his erection pressing insistently on the front of his pants, knows that it’s obvious, that if Steve just looked down he’d see it.

Steve doesn’t look down. Instead he carefully keeps his eyes on Danny’s face. “I can leave.” The words are quiet, his voice controlled.

“Or you can stay.” The words are out of Danny’s mouth before he can stop them, but once they’re out there, they don’t feel wrong. He’s nearly breathless with the promise of them.

“Danny—”

“I want you to stay.”

Steve’s fists close, open, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the movement. “Think about what you’re saying.”

“I am thinking about it.” Danny swallows hard. His hands are trembling. “I can’t _stop_ thinking about it.”

So many seconds tick past in silence, Danny feels like screaming just to fill it. Finally, Steve says, “Okay.”

Danny breathes out, smiling a little. “Okay.”

When Steve closes the bedroom door, he meets Danny’s eyes, his hand still on the doorknob. “It’s not too late,” he says.

Danny nods. “Yes it is,” he says. But he doesn’t care. Because he can still taste Steve on his lips and he knows Steve wants him back and right at that moment, that’s all that matters.

+++

“Sneaking away in the middle of the night like a guilty husband, I see.” Danny’s half asleep, half his face buried in his pillow. He’s watching Steve get dressed through one eye. The lamp on Steve’s side of the bed – and holy hell, how easy was it to start thinking of it as Steve’s side – is on, throwing Steve’s shadow across the wall and Danny feels his lips curl into a sleepy half-smile as he watches him move.

Steve smiles as he buttons his cargos, bending to snag his t-shirt off the floor. He looks at Danny. “It may be the middle of the night,” he says, his smile widening, “but I definitely don’t feel guilty.” He works his arms inside his shirt and moves to put it on.

That’s when Danny sees it. “Wait.” He sits up to get a better look, then slips out of bed and pads over to Steve. Pushing Steve’s arms down, Danny runs his fingertips lightly along a darkening spot blooming on Steve’s skin over his pulse point. He feels himself blush. “Oh, shit.”

Steve grins. “You really seem to like that spot, Danny.”

Danny forces himself to meet Steve’s eyes. “Everyone’s gonna see it.”

“Yeah, probably,” Steve says. He leans in, his t-shirt trapped arms between them. “But only you and I will know who gave it to me.” He gives Danny a kiss, then another, tugging gently at Danny’s bottom lip. Then he straightens and pulls on his shirt. Danny’s more than a little sorry to see it.

He looks down at his own body, inspecting all the skin he can see. Nothing. He feels a twinge of relief before his hands move to his neck, his fingers probing and pressing. He doesn’t feel anything unusual, but he’s not sure he would. He looks back up at Steve, who’s giving him an amused look. “Please tell me you didn’t.” 

Steve lifts one eyebrow and lets the moment linger before finally relenting. “Relax, Danny. I didn’t. I’m not fresh out of the closet, you know.” Danny opens his mouth to say something snarky, but Steve cuts him off with a look. “You know what I mean.” He picks up his boots and socks and sits down on the edge of the bed to put them on. “Though I will admit, the look on your face as you tried to explain a hickey away to Grace would almost be worth it.”

“Spider.”

Steve looks up. “Excuse me?”

“Spider bite,” Danny says, smiling. “I’m allergic. I’d just tell her I was attacked by a giant spider in my sleep. One with really long, really hairy legs.”

Steve shakes his head with a smile and finishes tying his boots, then stands and crowds into Danny’s personal space. He grips Danny’s shoulders, then slides his hands up until his fingers are in Danny’s hair. “I’ve gotta go.” There’s regret in his voice, but it’s the kind of regret Danny doesn’t mind hearing. It’s the same kind of regret Danny’s feeling himself.

Danny curls his hand around Steve’s wrist, feels the steady thump of Steve’s heartbeat under his fingertips. His eyes fall to Steve’s neck; the rhythm is mirrored there, beneath the mark Danny left. He doesn’t know how to say goodbye now, not after everything. So he doesn’t, saying instead, “Tell Martinez not to get too comfortable at short, okay? He’s just keeping it warm for me.” The team’s leaving on a 16-day road trip in the morning. Without him. Another Lori Weston rule: injured guys don’t get to travel. If they can’t contribute, there’s no reason to pay their way just to sit the bench.

Steve presses his forehead to Danny’s. “It won’t be the same without you, Danno.”

Danny smiles sheepishly, then reaches out and pulls Steve into a hug, closing his eyes as Steve’s arms go around him. Steve is warm and solid against him and even through the clothes pressing against Danny’s naked skin, he still smells like sex. Danny feels warmth start to pool in his belly. Steve’s stubble scratches across his skin as he turns his head to press kisses to Danny’s temple, his eye, his cheek. The mix of sensations goes right to Danny’s dick.

“Okay,” he says, pushing Steve away as he takes a step back, letting his hands fall away. “Now go away. Before we both turn into girls.”

Steve looks down, his gaze lingering on Danny’s burgeoning erection for a moment before looking up again. “Now that,” he says, his voice husky with arousal. Danny already knows that sound by heart. “Would be a damn shame.”

Danny sees the outline of Steve’s own erection straining against his pants and his mouth goes dry, hands clenching into fists. He’s not used to this, this feeling of instant, all-consuming arousal. He hasn’t felt it in years – not since Rachel, really – and he’s out of practice. It’s throwing him off-balance. He needs some perspective, he thinks. A little space to clear his head and think. But Steve’s right here, _right fucking here_ , and he’s got that heated look on his face. Because of Danny.

“Your plane,” Danny says, but there’s no real argument behind it. 

Steve takes a step towards him, crowding back into Danny’s space. “Can fucking leave without me,” he growls, putting his hands back on Danny’s body, exactly where they belong.

+++

It doesn’t, of course. Steve finally leaves just before sunrise, in plenty of time to go home and get ready before the team’s 9AM flight to California. 

Danny shuts the door behind him and slides the deadbolts into place, ignoring the sense of loneliness already threatening to claw its way into his gut. He’s tired, but in a good way, and the thought makes him smile before he realizes he’s standing naked in the middle of his entryway looking thoroughly debauched. At any second, Grace, ever the early riser, could wander out of her room in search of breakfast, and then what would he do? He hurries back to his room.

His plan is to take a shower, change his sheets, and go to sleep for a couple more hours. But the rumpled bed looks much too inviting to ignore, dirty sheets or no, and the first two parts of his plan are quickly discarded in favor of sleeping right the fuck now. So he pulls on sleep pants and an old t-shirt and crawls into the mess of bedcovers, tugging the blanket over himself and sinking into the pillows. The air inside his cocoon still smells a little like sex, but he ignores it. He’ll ask Grace to help him put clean sheets on later; she does the corners better than he does. And he absolutely will not feel weird about asking his nine-year-old to help him change the sheets he just had sex on.

Danny Williams, Father of the Year.

+++

Bright sunlight is painting parallel stripes across the floor when Danny wakes up. A quick look at the clock reveals it’s still too damn early to get up, so he snuggles back under the blankets and closes his eyes. But then a high-pitched wailing like a razor blade to his ear drums sends him shooting out of bed. When he opens his bedroom door, the smell of burning _something_ propels him blindly through the apartment, banging his toe on the edge of the TV stand and hobbling into the kitchen muttering a few choice curse words under his panic-stricken breath.

“Wha—?” he says as his brain struggles to connect the dots.

Grace is standing in front of the stove on the wooden step she uses when she brushes her teeth, pushing what Danny can only assume from the ingredients strewn across the counter used to be French toast but is now smoldering lumps of blackened dough throwing smoke up towards the ceiling. She’s holding a spatula in one hand and the phone in the other, pressed against her ear, and she’s looking up at him with big round eyes he could drown in.

Meanwhile, the smoke alarm is still wailing – at least the battery still works – and Danny wraps one arm around Grace and a hand around the skillet’s handle and carries both to the sink. He drops the pan in the sink, turns the faucet on, and ducks out of the way of the billow of fresh smoke and steam sizzling up from the pan. Then he grabs the broom and stabs the smoke alarm with the handle until the cover falls off and the battery pops out, finally stopping the wailing. He stands there breathing heavily, Grace tucked under his arm, looking around the kitchen. It’s a picture of chaos, bowls and dishes everywhere, a couple broken eggs on the floor, a congealing puddle of milk slowly streaming over the edge of the counter to meet its twin on the floor.

He sets Grace down on her feet, smoothing down her pajama shirt and looking into her eyes. She looks even younger at that moment than she really is, with wide brimming eyes and trembling lips, and Danny just wants to crush her to him and protect her from the rest of the world forever.

“Baby, are you okay?” he asks, panic still edging his voice. He runs his hands over her, checking for bodily injury, pushes up her sleeves to check for burns. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, then says, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just…I wanted to…” She starts crying, big fat tears rolling slowly down her cheeks, and Danny scoops her up then and holds her tightly to him, cupping the back of her head in his hand and pressing his face to her hair.

Kissing the edge of her ear, he whispers, “It’s okay, monkey. I’m not mad. I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

She brings her arms up to wrap around his neck, snuggling closer to him. Out of the corner of his right eye, he sees the end of the spatula that’s still gripped in Gracie’s hand, and in his left ear, he hears his name in a thin, tinny voice. Coming from the phone.

Shifting Grace to his hip, he wrinkles his brow as he plucks the phone from her hand and presses it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Shit, Danny,” Steve says, relief flooding his voice. “Is Gracie okay?”

Danny looks at his daughter. Her face is tear-stained, but she’s stopped crying, and he presses a kiss to her forehead. “She’s fine,” he says. “Just a little culinary catastrophe.” He looks up to see the burner still glowing red-hot and limps over to the stove – he tweaked his knee in his mad dash through the apartment – to turn it off, tucking the phone against his shoulder. “Everything’s under control now.” His eyes sting a little from the lingering smoke and he and Gracie vacate to the living room, where he plops her down onto the sofa. Plucking the spatula out of her hand, he points it at her and gives her his best stern dad look. “But I hope we’ve learned our lesson,” he says. She smiles sheepishly and nods.

“Don’t be too hard on her, Danny,” Steve says.

It finally dawns on Danny to wonder why in the hell Grace was even on the phone with Steve in the first place. “Wait a second,” he says. “You called?” He didn’t even hear the phone ring.

“Obviously.” Danny can almost hear Steve’s smirk.

“Why?”

“Why do you think? To ask you to water my plants.”

He sounds so serious, Danny’s taken aback. “What?”

“Be careful with the orchids, though. They’re delicate. You can’t just pour water in their pots, okay? You have to spray their leaves individually.”

All the times Danny’s been to Steve’s house, he doesn’t remember seeing any orchids. He rubs the back of his neck. “Really?”

There’s a pause. “No, Danny. Not really,” Steve says. “You’re kind of an idiot in the morning. How come I didn’t notice that before?” Danny can tell he’s smiling. 

Danny turns away from Grace, who’s already moved on from the morning’s disaster and is now watching cartoons. “Extenuating circumstances,” he says softly into the phone as he walks back towards the kitchen. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.” Stepping through the doorway, Danny suppresses a whimper, taking a slow breath of still-acrid air.

“I suppose that’s my fault, too,” Steve says.

“You’re damn ri— Wait, what do you mean ‘too’?” Danny drops the spatula in the sink as he peers into it, sending up a brief prayer to the god of breakfast foods for the souls of the three pieces – at least he thinks there were three – of French toast that never even stood a chance. 

A couple of heartbeats pass before Steve answers. “I may have suggested that Grace make you breakfast.”

“Steven…”

“I meant something simple, Danny. Like cereal. Orange juice. Maybe a toaster waffle.”

Danny smiles despite himself. Just the idea of Steve and Gracie conspiring over the phone to feed him… “Well, she was making French toast,” he says. “Or trying to.” He picks up the pan from the sink and turns it upside down. Black water pours out of it, but ominously, the clumps of burnt bread are still stuck. “I think my pan is ruined.” He sets it back down with a frown.

Steve laughs. “I’m sorry, Danny. I’ll buy you a new one.”

“It won’t be the same,” Danny says sadly. “That thing was an heirloom. I’ve had it since rookie ball.” He sighs.

“So let me get this straight. You’re in mourning over a frying pan.”

“Rookie ball, Steven. Have a heart.” Danny pulls about a dozen paper towels from the roll and wads them up, surveying for the best place to start cleaning.

“I didn’t know you were so sentimental,” Steve says. “It’s kinda hot.”

Danny rolls his eyes as he smears the puddle of congealed milk around on the counter with the paper towels. “If you could smell me right now, you wouldn’t be saying that.” He lowers his voice. “I reek of stale sex.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it stale.” Steve’s voice grows husky on the words and Danny stops wiping at the counter to listen. “Besides, I like the idea of you smelling like that. Something to remember me by.”

Like Danny could ever forget. Like he even wanted to. “What about you? I’ll bet you washed me off the first chance you got.”

“True. But I have other things to remind me.” Steve’s voice is liquid silver.

Danny blushes. “Right.” He goes back to wiping the counter.

Steve laughs then and the moment breaks. “Which didn’t stay secret for long, by the way. I had no idea everyone paid such close attention to my neck.”

Danny smirks. “They do when you’ve been the patron saint of celibacy all season.” 

“What?” Steve says on a laugh. “Is that what everyone calls me?”

“No,” Danny says. “Just me. I was going to have a medal made.”

“Well, I guess you can cancel that now.”

“One night does not a sex life make,” Danny quips.

“No, but it’s a start,” Steve says. “And I’ve got plans for you, Danny. Big plans. Wink, wink.”

Danny grins, warming up to the banter. If he ever had any worry that things would be awkward between them now, he doesn’t anymore. They’re just as easy as ever. “Easy there, stud,” he says. “It’s not the size—”

“I’m hungry,” Grace interrupts, walking into the kitchen. “Can I have eggs?” She stops in the doorway and stares around at the mess, blinking slowly, like it’s the first time she’s seen it. Ah, the short memories of children. “Um…”

Steve’s laughing again. “Kinda gives a whole new meaning to ‘saving grace,’ doesn’t it? What were you going to say, Danny, hmm? Inquiring minds want to know.”

Danny tilts the phone away from his mouth and looks pointedly at Grace. “No, you cannot have eggs. Look at this mess. I’m going to have to have this kitchen condemned,” he says, smiling to soften his words. “I’ll take you to breakfast before I drop you back at your mom’s, okay?” He lifts the phone back to his mouth. “As for you, Steven—” He presses his mouth to the receiver. “—shut up.”

“That’s not very nice, Danno,” Steve says in one ear.

“That’s not very nice, Danno,” says Grace in the other.

Danny sighs in exasperation. “I can’t believe this,” he says. “I’m getting yelled at in stereo. It’s like Christmas with my in-laws all over again.”

“Except we actually like you,” Steve says, and Danny can hear his smile. 

Danny looks at Grace and smiles, sliding his fingers through her tangled hair. “Gee, thanks,” he says, smirking. Steve chuckles and Danny just lets the sound wash over him.

“I’ve gotta go,” Steve says after a moment. “Tell Grace bye for me.”

“Tell her yourself.” Danny holds the phone out to Grace. “Tell Uncle Steve goodbye,” he says to her.

Grace takes the phone. “Bye Uncle Steve!” she says into it, listening for a moment. Then she laughs. “I won’t. I promise.” She hands the phone back to Danny and says, “He told me not to cook until I’m tall enough to see over the dugout railing.”

Danny nods sagely. “That’s sound advice,” he says, brushing his thumb across her cheek. Then he puts the phone back to his ear and smiles. “Have a safe trip. I hope you strike out every at bat.” He doesn’t mean it, of course. It’s just code for something deeper.

Steve understands, though. “Me too, Danny.”

+++

> Nearly six months have passed since Danny Williams retired from baseball, and except for the cane he uses to help him walk as he recuperates from a knee replacement, he still looks like a ballplayer: compact and muscular, some of his old agility still evident in the smooth way he lowers himself into his chair after chivalrously pulling out mine.
> 
> When I comment on his cane – a gnarled, twisted thing that looks like it should be gripped in the wizened hand of Walt Whitman instead of leaning against a table in Kamekona’s – he laughs. “It was a gift from Joe,” he says. “Kind of an inside joke. I don’t think he thought I’d actually use it. So of course I had to.” Joe is Joe White, long-time manager of the Warrior Kings, so well-loved by fans and players alike, he’s an institution in and of himself. In fact, he’s so important to Honolulu baseball that when the 2012 season opens next month, the Kings will be playing their home games in the newly renamed Joe White Stadium.
> 
> Steadily making his way through his spicy shrimp bowl (extra pineapple, please), Danny answers my questions without hesitation. About deciding to retire, he shrugs, surprisingly nonchalant. “I didn’t really have a choice at that point. My knee was completely shot to hell.” He’d been suffering from a bad knee for years, but had always found a way to keep going, to make it work, until a brutal collision with a runner at second base twelve games before the season ended put a stop to that. When I ask him about a possible comeback, he gives me a wry smile. “Believe me, I’ve thought about it. But this game…it’s beyond me now. And I’m okay with that. There are other things in life, you know?”
> 
> Other things, like his daughter Grace, who turns 10 this month. When he talks about her, his face lights up with a paternal glow bright enough to read by. “She’s great. The most beautiful girl in the world,” he says sincerely. “Sometimes I can’t believe she’s my daughter. I mean, look at me. [Laughs.] She’s lucky she’s got her mom’s genes.” Self-deprecation comes as easily to him as turning a double play used to. “I look at her and I say to myself, she’s the best thing I’ve ever done. The best part of me. I used to spend so much time worrying about my statistics, about all these stupid numbers. What people thought of me, how I’d be remembered. But I learned none of that matters.” His eyes get a little misty. “Because no matter what happened, no matter if I hit .280 or .180, no matter how many errors I made or double plays I turned, I’d always be her dad and she’d always love me.”
> 
> Other things, like the book he’s planning to write. “Someday,” he emphasizes, tapping his temple. “It’s all still up here. A work in progress.” Fiction or nonfiction? “Nothing’s stranger than the truth,” he answers cryptically.
> 
> Other things, like his relationship with Steve McGarrett. “Is it too late to play the privacy card?” he asks wryly, smiling a little. It’s a reference to the painfully public way their relationship was suddenly thrust into the spotlight last September when a video surfaced of the two of them caught in an intimate embrace. He takes a moment before continuing, his clear blue eyes staring out the window at the place that’s taken him in, made him one of their own. “There are some things I wish I could’ve done differently,” he finally says. “Of course there are. I mean, who can’t say that? But Steve’s not one of them. I want to make that clear. For the first time in a long time, I can truly say I’m happy and mean it. And that’s because of him.” He looks out the window again. “I used to hate Hawaii,” he adds after a moment, a smile ghosting across his lips. “But now it feels like home.”

+++

Danny knocks softly on the door to room 1420, his heart thumping against his ribs. It’s late, but it’s been 11 days, damn it. Eleven very long fucking days with nothing but his own hand and Steve’s dirty voice through the phone. It’s time to remedy that.

When the door opens, Danny grins crookedly; he can’t help it. “Miss me?”

Steve’s smile makes arousal flare in Danny’s belly as he’s dragged inside by the front of his shirt.

They can’t get naked fast enough.

+++

Danny wakes up to a hand around his dick and warm lips on the curve of his neck. The sun’s up, but the light filtering through the curtains is gray. It’s still early. He uncurls his body and presses back against Steve with a smile, feeling the line of Steve’s erection against his ass. He closes his eyes and exhales, simply reveling in the sensations, his had curving loosely around Steve’s as it slowly works his cock.

Steve pulls him closer, pressing his groin harder against Danny, a burst of breath skating across Danny’s skin at the friction. Danny opens his eyes and turns his head to look at him, sees the bridge of Steve’s nose and the fan of dark lashes on Steve’s cheeks, feels the press of Steve’s open mouth against his shoulder. He turns away again, pressing his face into the pillow, squeezing his hand around Steve’s to strengthen his grip, gasping at the added pressure. He pushes into Steve’s hand harder, faster, until he’s dizzy with it, until the breath burns in his chest and the buzz of white noise slowly begins to spread out from the base of his skull, whiting out everything until reality reduces down to this bed, this moment. Until there’s nothing else in the world but this.

The edges of Steve’s teeth bite into Danny’s shoulder and he arches into it, letting go of Steve’s hand to reach behind him and grab hold of Steve’s thigh instead, digging in his fingers and pulling him closer. He feels Steve thrust against him once, twice, then finds himself suddenly on his back, Steve hovering over him, hand still working Danny’s dick. His lips are slightly parted, breaths rapid, and he’s looking at Danny with eyes filled mostly with pupil, black and bottomless.

Danny reaches for him, wanting to return the favor. He wants to see what it looks like to watch Steve come in the light of morning, to see the way his face changes at that last second right before he lets go. But Steve grabs his hand, stopping it, stilling his hand around Danny’s dick as well as he sits back on his heels. Danny’s too breathless to protest and just stares as Steve lifts his trapped hand to his mouth and sucks in two of Danny’s fingers. Danny’s breath hitches as Steve’s tongue moves across his skin, slick and smooth, his dick throbbing in Steve’s loose grip. He thrusts up, seeking needed friction, but Steve suddenly grips him just this side of too tight, keeping him still.

Steve’s cheeks hollow around Danny’s fingers, his tongue moving between them, around them, and Danny watches, mesmerized, so close to coming he can barely breathe, the fingers of his other hand digging into the sheets. Steve pulls Danny’s hand away after a moment, a thin string of saliva stretching then snapping between his lips and Danny’s fingers. Then he smiles and leans in closer, knees snug against Danny’s hips. He guides Danny’s hand to his ass, smile flickering when Danny’s wet fingers trail down his crease. Danny knows what he wants and when Steve’s grip on his wrist loosens, he obliges, slipping his fingers inside Steve without preamble. Steve pushes out a breath and closes his eyes, his head falling heavily on Danny’s shoulder.

Danny moves his fingers as he presses up into the tunnel of Steve’s hand. After his second thrust, Steve gets on board, tightening his grip on Danny’s dick and beginning to stroke. Danny throws his head back and Steve nips at his neck, soothing the bite with his tongue, trailing his teeth along Danny’s jaw until their mouths meet. Danny buries his free hand in Steve’s hair, pulling him closer, tangling their tongues together, swallowing the noises Steve makes as he pushes back against Danny’s fingers. The rhythm of Steve’s hand falters, but his grip is still firm, still perfect, and Danny pushes up into it and comes, breaking their kiss as he pants against Steve’s cheek. Steve follows a few seconds later, his body stilling over Danny’s as warm semen paints Danny’s belly, mingling with his own.

Steve collapses on top of him, face buried in Danny’s neck, hands in Danny’s hair, chests pressing against each other as they both catch their breath. He grunts softly when Danny pulls his fingers out, sighing when Danny wraps his arms around him. Steve’s heavy and hot as a furnace, and both their bellies are sticky with semen and sweat, but Danny doesn’t protest. He just lies there blinking up at the ceiling, enjoying the post-orgasm haze settling into his bones.

Then Steve lifts his head, pressing his lips against Danny’s cheek and curving them into a smile. “Yes,” he says. “I really missed you.”

Danny grins and then starts to laugh.

+++

Danny’s in the lineup that night, hitting seventh and playing shortstop. He goes 1 for 3 with a sacrifice fly in the eighth inning that scores Steve from third. On the way back to the dugout, Steve smacks him on the ass like he’s done a thousand times before, only this time Danny has to turn his head to hide his blush. The Kings win the game 5-2.

In the clubhouse, Danny tries to hide his grimace as he removes his new knee brace, which has rubbed a bloody blister into his skin. It’s gonna sting like a bitch in the shower, but the knee itself feels pretty good – relatively speaking – so he really can’t complain.

Chin walks over, holding out a tube of some kind of analgesic cream. “You should’ve let me adjust that for you,” he says, nodding towards the brace. That’s his way of saying _I told you so_. Before the game, Danny declined Chin’s offer to make sure the brace fit correctly. He was in such a hurry to get back on the field, he didn’t want to spare the time. Now he wishes he had.

Danny smirks and snatches the tube from his hand. “You were right and I was wrong,” he says. “Happy now?”

“Chin’s always happy, Danno,” Steve says, walking up behind Chin and placing a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Being married to a beautiful, intelligent woman will do that for you.” He gives Chin’s shoulder a squeeze before he sits down in front of his locker, which is next to Danny’s. “How many years now? Five?”

“Six,” Chin says, smiling. “In two months.”

Danny pulls a face. “I was married to a beautiful, intelligent woman,” he says. “And I distinctly remember being _un_ happy for a large portion of it.”

Chin pats him on the shoulder. “Happiness is an elusive thing,” he says. “It comes and goes. When you find it, you need to embrace it. Nurture it so it will grow.”

Danny sneaks a glance at Steve, who’s looking intently back at him, a funny little half-smile on his face. He bites back a smile of his own as he looks back up at Chin. “Is that some kind of bullshit Hawaiian proverb or something? Next you’re going to tell me love is a garden.”

Chin puts his hands on his hips and smiles. “Not a garden, Danny. A spice.” He places a hand over his heart. “Love is a spice of many tastes. A dizzying array of textures and moments.”

Steve laughs.

Danny looks back and forth between them. “What is that? Shakespeare or something?”

Steve and Chin share a look, then look back at Danny. “ _Seinfeld_ ,” they say in unison.

After a session with Chin adjusting his brace and a nice, long soak in the whirlpool, Danny’s pretty much the only one left in the clubhouse as he heads to the shower. Even Steve is gone, having left earlier with half the bullpen, which can’t mean anything good. It’s a universal fact of baseball: relief pitchers are the craziest motherfuckers on any team and if Steve got sucked into their little vortex, god only knows what he’s up to. Danny almost feels sorry for him.

He’s just finished wrapping a towel around his waist when he suddenly finds himself pressed against the towel rack itself, skin still damp from the shower, metal cutting into his shoulders. Steve’s holding him in place as he grins down at him, eyes gleaming wickedly. Looks like he jumped off the crazy train after all. 

They’re not exactly hidden behind closed doors, however, and Danny’s heart starts to thump inside his chest at the prospect of getting caught. “What are you doing?” he hisses, looking around for interlopers even as his traitorous body reacts to the proximity of Steve’s solid body.

“Embracing happiness, Danny,” Steve says. He starts to lean in.

Danny puts a hand on his chest, stopping him. “Right here? Are you crazy?”

“Relax,” Steve says. “The only ones here are Joe and Chin and they’re both in Joe’s office.” He smiles. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

Danny looks towards the main part of the clubhouse. It’s dim and quiet, but looks can be deceiving. He looks back at Steve, shaking his head. “We are not having sex in this clubhouse, Steven.”

Steve’s eyes are intense. “Who said anything about sex?” he asks, leaning in and capturing Danny’s mouth with his own. His hands skim over Danny’s ribs then down, fingers just dipping into Danny’s towel before moving up again, pressing into Danny’s skin, his skillful tongue stealing Danny’s breath. Danny grips the shelf behind him with both hands to keep from touching Steve, afraid that if he does, he won’t be able to stop.

Then Steve pulls away abruptly and takes two steps back, breathing heavily, his eyes scanning Danny from head to toe, lingering on Danny’s obvious erection before settling on his face. His lips are wet from Danny’s mouth. Danny should be squirming under so much scrutiny, but he likes the feel of Steve’s eyes on him, the heat of his gaze. It’s nice to be desired. 

But then suddenly it’s like a switch flips and everything changes. There’s something else in Steve’s eyes now. Something dark. Something like uncertainty, maybe. Or fear. Danny can’t put his finger on it. 

“Steve—”

“I know this is dangerous,” Steve says softly, interrupting him, and something in his voice makes Danny’s throat tight. Steve’s eyes flick towards the locker room and back and he runs a hand over his face. “Jesus, I know that. But I…” 

Danny waits for Steve to say something more, but he doesn’t, and he can feel things shifting, slipping away. He tries to hold on. “I don’t want to stop,” he says into the quiet, louder than he probably should. But he wants to make sure Steve hears him. “And I don’t want to think about it. I just…I want to go with it. See where it takes us.” He tries to smile. “We just have to be careful, okay?”

Steve takes a moment before answering, looking him over again. The smile that slowly curves his lips makes Danny a little light-headed. “I want to remember you,” Steve finally says, “just like this. For the long ride back to the hotel.”

Danny smiles. “It’s only ten blocks.”

Steve steps close again, close enough for Danny to feel the warmth of his body against his bare skin. He’s still holding on to the shelf and tightens his grip, the metal cutting into his palms.

“So I’ll ask the driver to take the scenic route.” Steve leans in, reaching up to grip the shelf above Danny’s head with both hands. He dips his head until their lips are almost touching. “Circle the block a few times.” Then he closes the gap between them, kissing Danny softly with just his lips.

Danny should probably discourage him, but gives into it instead, his eyes falling closed as he just goes with it. He chases Steve’s lips as he pulls away, Steve’s mouth curling into a smile as Danny opens his eyes. 

“See you later,” Steve whispers, smiling. “I’ll leave the light on for you.” 

+++

They spend nearly every night together after that, on the road and at home, except when Danny has Gracie. Despite the resounding success of their first night together, they both decide it’s not worth the risk of Grace walking in on them and besides, that’s Danny’s time with his daughter and he and Grace should spend it together. On every other night, Danny usually finds himself at Steve’s house. He’d have a hard time admitting it out loud, but he rather likes the sound of the surf through Steve’s open bedroom windows as they fall asleep together and the taste of saltwater on Steve’s skin after his morning swim. He especially likes that Steve knows how to make waffles. From scratch. And he’s thinking about proposing to Steve’s coffee maker.

It’s more difficult on the road, of course. They can never spend the entire night together, using swapped key cards to sneak into each other’s hotel rooms in the middle of the night, constantly checking the halls for witnesses. But even during games, they find ways to touch without causing suspicion – brushing arms as they pass each other on the way to the water cooler, leaning against the other’s legs as he sits on the back of the dugout bench, hugging that lasts maybe a couple seconds longer than usual. There are boundaries, of course, number one being no more making out in the clubhouse, empty or no. But despite the restrictions, it’s more than worth the effort. Only, more and more, Danny is finding it harder to fall asleep without Steve next to him, though he refuses to overthink what that means.

Best of all, it doesn’t affect their performance on the field. Not negatively, anyway. By the end of June, Danny’s average is flirting with .300 for the first time in six years and he’s on a 12-game hitting streak, going 22 for 48 in that span, with 2 homeruns, 6 doubles, and 14 runs batted in. Defensively, he and Steve are just as in sync as they’ve always been, both of them making the web gems list on all the top sports news shows twice in the first two weeks after Danny’s return from the disabled list. And if once in a while his mind lapses for a second as he thinks about how Steve feels underneath his uniform, well, he’s only human. 

It’s good. It’s very good. And Danny, dare he say it, is happy.

+++

Steve and Toast are the only two players from the Warrior Kings to make the American League All-Star team. The game is in Austin this year and the night before Steve leaves for three days, Danny decides to make him dinner. To actually prepare and cook it himself, in Steve’s kitchen, while Steve lounges lazily on the back porch. Through the window, all Danny can see are Steve’s bare feet propped on the railing and his beer gripped loosely in his hand as it rests on his thigh, just on the verge of tipping. He knows Steve’s half asleep. 

It starts to rain as Danny’s making the salad. No lightning, no thunder, just one of those sudden soft and quiet storms he’s learned to expect from summertime Hawaii. Back home the rain always announced itself, shouting its arrival before soaking the city, turning the streets into living streams of flotsam, clogging the gutters and making the streets slick with oil. But here – in his own tiny part of Hawaii, the part he shares with Steve – it’s different. Here the rain sneaks up on you, humming softly against the roof, falling soundlessly to the sand.

Danny puts down his knife, wipes his hands on a towel, and steps out through the back door. Steve is dozing fully now, his chest moving with slow, even breaths. His beer is nearly parallel to the floor and Danny reaches down and plucks it from his fingers. He takes a pull from the bottle. The beer’s warm but he drinks it anyway, finishing it in three long swallows as he looks out at the ocean, the way it blends with the sky as it tapers towards the horizon, its sharp edges bleeding out of focus. On an impulse, he sets the bottle on the railing next to Steve’s feet and steps out into the rain, wet sand squeezing between his toes with each step. The rain feels like bathwater. He holds his hands out to catch it, feels it seep through his fingers and soak into his shirt, running down the sides of his face as he tilts it towards the sky, closing his eyes.

“You look like you lost a popup in the sun,” Steve says, snapping Danny out of his reverie. When he looks over, he sees Steve standing at the top of the steps, arms crossed over his chest, leaning casually against the post with a funny little half-smile curving his lips.

Danny drops his arms to his sides and turns to face Steve full-on. “How long have you been watching me?” 

Steve’s smile grows. “Long enough,” he says. He motions at the rain. “Care to explain?”

Danny shrugs. He can feel his t-shirt clinging to him and he plucks at it. He doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, but he’s nearly soaked to the skin. “I don’t know. Just… When was the last time you stood in the rain just because?”

Steve just looks at him, eyes intent, and even from this distance Danny can feel the weight of his gaze, the way it presses into his skin and makes it tingle. Seconds pass like that, one after the next.

“Come here,” Steve finally says, his voice a low rumble.

Danny complies without argument, climbing the steps until he’s right in front of Steve, tilting his head back slightly to meet his eyes. Anticipation flows under his skin like it always does when they’re this close, when it’s just them, away from the field and the team and the constraints that go with them. His mouth slowly goes dry when Steve reaches out and traces his fingertips lightly across Danny’s wet cheek, and he can’t stop the shiver that travels the length of his spine. He pushes against the touch, feels the rough pad of Steve’s thumb smear the rain across his skin.

And then they’re kissing, slowly at first, then with more urgency, Steve’s hands snaking through Danny’s wet hair, Danny’s cold fingers seeking out the heat of Steve’s skin. Their feet shuffle across the porch as they move towards the house, tripping over the threshold, stumbling against the refrigerator with a laugh. They break apart long enough to lose their shirts, leaving them in a heap on the floor as they come back together, breath rasping between them, hands tearing at the rest of their clothes as they clumsily make their way upstairs, dinner completely forgotten.

Steve pushes Danny down on the bed and hovers over him, slowly licking the rain off his skin until Danny’s desperate for more, his fingers white-knuckling the covers. Steve kisses his mouth then, slow and dirty, then wraps his hand around Danny’s erection and smiles lasciviously, making Danny’s breath hitch. 

“Lie still,” Steve says, stretching his long body to the side of the bed to retrieve the supplies, his hand moving steadily on Danny’s cock. And Danny does, watching Steve move, his belly tight with arousal. Steve tears open a foil packet with his teeth, tossing its remains to the floor. But instead of rolling the condom on himself, he rolls it on Danny, his eyes never leaving Danny’s face.

Danny’s mind short-circuits, his eyes going wide as Steve looks at him. This is new for them and the thought of it makes Danny dizzy, his eyesight pulsing with each thump of his heart. Steve smiles a little, pressing his thumb to the throbbing in Danny’s neck. “You’re not going to stroke out on me, are you?”

Danny blinks up at him. “Are you sure about this?” 

Steve gives Danny’s cock a squeeze, smirking at the involuntary sound Danny makes low in his throat. “Are you?”

“God yes,” Danny says embarrassingly quickly, and Steve laughs. Danny slides his hands over Steve’s thighs to his hips, holding on as heat slowly spreads outward from his belly, warming him from head to toe as Steve reaches for the lube.

Steve’s smile slowly fades as he preps himself, face transforming, mouth falling open, eyes falling closed as his head rolls back. Danny thinks maybe he’ll come just from this, just from watching Steve, the curve of his neck, the slide of his Adam’s apple against his skin, the thump of his pulse in the hollow of his throat. Steve’s skin is hot beneath his hands, the first sheen of sweat just beginning to make it slick, and Danny chokes out Steve’s name before he can stop himself.

Opening his eyes, Steve meets Danny’s gaze. His pupils are blown, dark with lust as he inches up Danny’s body, knees hugging Danny’s ribs. He reaches behind him, taking Danny in hand as he sits up on his knees. “Ready?” he asks, and Danny holds his breath in anticipation as he nods, unable to speak.

Steve presses a hand against Danny’s chest as he lowers himself onto Danny’s cock, a long deep groan escaping with his breath. Danny’s own breath leaves him in a rush and he closes his eyes against the sensation, the tight heat of Steve’s body around his dick nearly more than he can take. He doesn’t want to come, not yet, and he grits his teeth against it, digging his fingers into Steve’s skin hard enough to leave bruises.

“Jesus, Danny. So good.” The words are close, just breath against Danny’s lips, and Danny opens his mouth to taste them, tastes Steve’s tongue instead. He just goes with it, sinking into the sensations, Steve’s body moving against his as they kiss. He plants his feet on the bed and thrusts up, swallowing Steve’s sounds. Does it again, and again, Steve making hot little noises into Danny’s mouth. Steve breaks the kiss then, breath rasping, his forehead resting against Danny’s cheek as he braces his arms on the bed, hands curling under Danny’s shoulders. His head dips lower as he pushes back against Danny’s thrusts, his hair tickling Danny’s chin, breath stuttering and hot.

Danny’s hands rub slow circles on Steve’s skin and Steve bites his nipple, making Danny flinch, air hissing through his teeth at the sweet-sharp pain of it. Steve does it again, soothing it with his tongue this time, then pushes himself up until he’s nearly vertical, the small of his back pressing against Danny’s thighs. The new angle allows Danny to sink completely inside him and if he thought it was perfect before, he was wrong, because this. This is better – impossibly, unbelievably better.

Steve starts touching himself, muscles moving under his skin, his other hand gripping the back of Danny’s leg as his eyes fall shut. Danny’s hands are on him, everywhere he can reach, fingertips tracing the lines of the tendons in Steve’s hand as he jerks himself. And it’s everything, the only thing, too much, not enough. Danny’s burning from the inside out, reality distilling down to this moment, this bed, the two of them linked, each inside the other in one way or another.

Steve stills, opening his eyes to look at him, his gaze so intent Danny thinks he can see the words that Danny isn’t saying. The sound of the rain on the roof drowns out the sound of their breath. Seconds pass as Danny watches a collection of emotions slide across Steve’s face like storm clouds before something unreadable finally settles across his features. He leans forward, finding Danny’s hands and lacing their fingers together, pressing their combined hands into the pillow. 

He clenches around Danny’s cock then, milking it slowly over and over, and Danny closes his fingers tighter around Steve’s, holding on, just letting himself feel it. They’re sharing breath, barely moving, crawling their way to the edge together. Steve dips his head and gently kisses Danny, just a soft touch of lips.

“You make me happy, Danny,” he whispers. 

Danny pulls back to look at him, wanting to see his eyes. They’re clear and unblinking and free of uncertainty. Danny digs in his heels and thrusts.

Steve comes with soft a sound, pulling Danny with him.

+++

The National League takes a 3-1 lead in the fourth inning of the All-Star Game on the power of a towering two-run shot to left-center by Steve’s former teammate Nick Taylor, who crushes a hanging curveball from the Kings’ very own Adam “Toast” Charles into the seats. Danny grimaces when it happens, watching Toast scream his frustration into his mitt as soon as the ball is hit, smirking in distaste as Taylor performs one of those douchebag bat flips before rounding the bases.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

“That’s a dollar, Danno.”

Danny looks over at his daughter, who’s looking back at him with eyes so innocent he has the sudden urge to wrap her up and protect her forever. He gets that feeling a lot.

“What was that, monkey?”

“You said a bad word,” she says. “You have to put a dollar in the swear jar.”

Danny smiles. “Put it on my tab.”

Grace makes a face. “That’s what you always say.” She holds out her hand. “Pay up.”

“Aw, come on,” he says. “You know I’m good for it.”

“I know your tab is up to $53.” Grace Williams, Certified Public Accountant.

“Fifty-three?” He whistles. “Wow, I swear a lot.”

Grace nods. “Mommy says your potty mouth could pay for college.”

Danny snorts. “Mommy—” He bites back his knee-jerk response to his ex-wife’s casual snark. “Mommy exaggerates.”

Grace shrugs. “If it makes you feel any better,” she says, “Uncle Steve said he’d pay for it.”

Danny raises his eyebrows. “For college? Right on. We should get that in writing.”

Grace shakes her head in exasperation. “He said he’d pay your tab. He says you can’t help swearing a lot because you’re from New Jersey.”

“Hey,” Danny says in mock offense. “You’re from New Jersey, too.”

“But Mommy’s from England.”

The words sting more than they should, reminding him of just how little he gets to see his daughter. He has the impulse to tell her that Rachel knows a few choice curse words herself, that he’s heard them directed at him more than once in the not-so-distant past, but he holds his tongue. It doesn’t matter anyway. So he changes the subject.

“Speaking of Uncle Steve,” he says, “it’s almost his birthday. What do you think we should do for him?”

Grace grins, throwing out her arms. “Have a party!”

Danny laughs. “A party, huh? You mean like with pony rides and face painting and balloon animals?”

“No, Danno,” she says in her best I’m-with-stupid voice. “Grown-up stuff. Like…” She scrunches up her face in concentration. “Like poker and R-movies and beer.”

Danny feigns outrage. “Poker? R-movies? Beer? Grace Williams, I am shocked that you even know about such things.” He grabs her. “Just for that…” He tickles her until she’s laughing so hard, tears are streaming down her face and she’s begging him to stop, falling across his lap in a heap as she catches her breath. 

They settle like that, Grace gradually getting heavier as she falls asleep beneath Danny’s protective arm. He watches the game with the volume turned low, the National League expanding their lead, the American League battling back one run at a time. He perks up in the sixth when Steve enters the game to play second. He wishes he were out there with him, dirt and grass beneath his feet, Steve close enough to see his smile when Danny cracks a joke across the diamond. He’s always felt at home on a baseball field; having Steve beside him just makes it better.

In the top of the eighth with runners at the corners and the AL trailing by two, Steve comes up to the plate for his first and probably only at-bat of the game. The camera zooms in on him, his season stats flashing at the bottom of the screen, but all Danny sees is the man himself. The Steve beyond baseball, beyond the guy in the Kings uniform who can hit the ball a ton and field like he’s magnetic and the ball is made of iron. The Steve who reads biographies about Einstein and makes a mean omelet, who gets angry sometimes at a game that forces him to hide and kisses like it’s the only thing he’s good at. That’s the guy Danny likes the best.

That’s not to say it isn’t nice to watch Steve play baseball, because it is. It’s a thing of beauty, really. Like now, when he hits the first pitch he sees into the second deck seats in right field for a three-run homerun, giving the American League its first lead of the game, 7-6. Danny hoots, throwing up his arms and waking Grace, who sits up and rubs her eyes, giving him a sleepy look.

“What happened?” she asks in a scratchy voice, and Danny points to the TV, a grin plastered across his face as he watches Steve round the bases. “Is that Uncle Steve?”

Danny nods. “Yeah, monkey. He just crushed one into the seats.” He pulls her to him, holding her close as she snuggles up against him. He follows Steve on the screen, watching as he accepts congratulatory high fives and butt slaps from his teammates, smiling like a loon because it always feels great to be the hero. Danny wants to be in that dugout so badly, to share in his happiness, to meet his eyes and see his own feelings reflected back at him. 

“Did we win?” Grace asks beside him.

Danny smiles and kisses the top of her head. “Not yet,” he says. “But we will.”

Just then, the camera finds Steve in the dugout. He’s sitting on the bench, cap off, hair sticking up in a dozen directions. After that homer his night is done, and for the rest of the game he’ll just be another spectator enjoying the moment. He’s oblivious to the camera at first, but then he turns and sees it, mouth curving up into a wide smile. “Hi, Gracie!” he says and Grace squeaks at that, grinning up at Danny as she points at the screen. Then Steve flashes a couple of victory Vs, winking into the camera.

But Danny knows those aren’t Vs. They’re twos. Twenty-two, to be precise – Danny’s number.

He can’t stop grinning like an idiot.

+++

**August**

By August 6th, the Kings have won eight in a row and have pulled to within seven games of the division-leading Portland Bombers, who have won the AL West for the past 15 seasons. By August 12th, they’re within four of the division lead and the mood in the clubhouse is electric. None of them talk about it – everyone knows the best way to jinx something is to say it out loud – but they all know the significance of this season. They all keep silent track of the standings in their heads after each game. They’ve already accomplished more as a team than anyone except maybe themselves expected, and as far as history is concerned, they should be happy with where they’re at. But they can’t stop pushing now. There’s still more to accomplish. Sure, they’re in the lead for the wild card playoff spot for the first time ever, but they want more than that. They want to win the division. They’ve never been this close to the top before and for most of them, the thrill of being in the hunt is something new and exciting, the taste of it sweeter than anything else. Even Joe himself can’t stop smiling.

The Kings have always been the team everyone loves to ignore, the team always discounted before the season even starts. Outside their grudging inclusion in the highlight reels where even the Kings’ good performance can’t be ignored, they’re rarely given another passing thought. But this time they want to make people sit up and listen for once, to make them look at the Kings with something more than the patronizing sympathy usually spared for them. For once, they want to be the team everyone else is chasing. No one else thinks they can do it, not really. Sure, the Kings are surging, but they can’t possibly keep it up. Except for McGarrett, their roster’s filled with nobodies, and one man does not a team make. There’s still a lot of baseball left; they’ll fade eventually.

That’s what everyone thinks. Except the Kings, of course. 

Fuck everyone else. Half the battle is believing you can do it.

+++

On August 31st, Jeremy Lombardo – a 21-year-old call-up from AAA Escondido pitching in his first big-league game – throws a perfect game against the Bombers at their home stadium, the first no-hitter of any kind in Warrior Kings history. The win propels the team past Portland and into first place all by themselves, a place the Kings have never been before. After the game, they all go out to celebrate: the team, the coaches, the clubhouse attendants, everyone. They crowd into a place called Bar 410 – named after the distance from home plate to the center field wall at “The P” (Portland Park) – elbow to elbow with euphoric Bombers fans who will be talking about this game to their grandkids despite being on the losing end. It’s a crazy atmosphere, all the TVs blaring local news and cable sports shows, reliving the perfecto over and over in a loop that never gets old. No one’s ignoring the Kings today, not even in Portland, and the feeling is fantastic. 

It’s Lombo’s accomplishment, really, but everyone feels the glow from it, taking it in and internalizing it, making it their own. The kid is riding high, grinning so much his face must hurt, and in his ecstasy he screams to the crowd, “Drinks are on me for the rest of the night!” which elicits a round of cheers like indoor thunder, making every piece of glass in the building hum with shared excitement.

Danny shares a look with Steve. They both know what minor league players get paid and it sure as hell isn’t enough to buy alcohol for everyone in an overcrowded bar for the next few hours. So when Lombo isn’t looking, Danny pulls the bartender aside and hands him his credit card, asks him not to tell the kid because he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Besides, what Lombo doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And for the rest of the night, the booze flows like water. They’ll all be hung over during tomorrow’s game, but not a single one of them cares, because nights like these don’t happen every day and some things are meant to be celebrated.

It’s nearly two in the morning when Steve and Danny walk into the lobby of the Kings’ hotel, half-drunk and horny as hell. It takes everything they have to keep their hands to themselves as they walk side-by-side towards the elevator, nodding at the staff as they pass by, offering boozy smiles to those who meet their eyes. But as soon as they’re inside the elevator and the door slides shut behind them, all bets are off. Steve slams Danny against the wall, capturing his mouth, pushing his tongue past Danny’s lips, kissing him until they’re both breathless.

“Gonna fuck you,” he breathes, one hand curled around the back of Danny’s neck, the other cupping Danny’s growing erection. “Been thinkin’ about it all night.” 

Danny groans and pulls Steve closer, kissing him like he’s trying to crawl inside, the taste of beer still sharp on their tongues. The need to touch burns everything else away, caution lost in a sea of arousal, and it’s not until the door dings open that they even think to pull apart, chests heaving as their hands drag quickly across their mouths. They’re on their floor, amazingly enough, having managed to ascend 12 stories without interruption. The hallway is empty. They step off the elevator – Danny first, Steve close behind, so close Danny can feel his body heat. Danny fumbles with his card key, urgency and adrenaline making his hands tremble, but he gets the door unlocked on the first try. They tumble inside the room, the door barely closing behind them before Danny finds himself pressed against it, Steve on his knees with his hands on Danny’s hips, mouthing the length of Danny’s hard-on through his jeans.

And just like that, everything else is forgotten.

Steve wakes Danny with a lingering kiss before sneaking back to his own room just before dawn.

+++

**September**

Danny’s cell phone is ringing. 

“What the fuck, Danny?” Matt spits at him when he digs it out of his jeans and answers, still half asleep. His brother’s anger is loud and clear even through the phone and the fog of Danny’s hangover. “So you’re queer now?”

Danny’s eyes shoot open at that and he sits up in the bed that, until 30 seconds ago, he was passed out in. He ignores the pain in his head as Matt’s words bounce around inside his skull. “What? What are you talking about?” he asks, trying to blink the cobwebs away, his heart suddenly thumping in the base of his throat.

“Don’t fucking lie to me, man. I saw it.” Matt’s still seething.

Danny closes his eyes, icy fingers gripping his chest as he swallows. “Saw what?”

Matt makes a sound halfway between despair and amusement. “The video, asshole. You and Steve McGarrett mouth-fucking in some elevator. It’s all over the goddamn internet right now – Deadspin, TMZ. Fucking Gawker, Danny.”

Danny can’t find his voice to reply, can barely even breathe. He presses his hand against his mouth to hold back the wave of nausea bubbling up from his stomach, the taste of bile sharp on the back of his tongue. He can’t move, can’t think, just sits there frozen as Matt screams at him from the other side of the connection, the words themselves barely registering.

Until this: “...shouldn’t’ve had to hear about it like this. We’re brothers, man. Family.” Matt pauses, pushing out a breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, more resigned than anything. “Ma and Pop… They don’t deserve this, Danny. To have to see their own son like that…”

Danny can’t hold back the nausea anymore and scrambles off the bed, dropping the phone in the tangle of blankets as he runs to the bathroom. He leans over the toilet and vomits, his hands pressed flat against the wall, eyes stinging as his stomach convulses. He stays like that until there’s nothing left, then staggers to the sink to rinse his mouth, throwing cold water over his face.

The tiles are cold against his ass as he sinks to the floor, back pressed against the side of the bathtub, the heels of his hands pushed hard against his eyes as he tries to breathe. He thinks he can still hear his brother’s voice yelling at him through the phone in the next room and he kicks the bathroom door shut to drown it out, plunging the room into darkness.

The hotel phone starts ringing, the sound shrill even through the door. He wonders if it’s Steve, then makes himself stop wondering. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think at all. The phone just rings and rings. Stops. Rings again, stops again, the pattern repeating over and over, endlessly. Danny covers his ears with his hands and curls up on the floor. He can’t stop shaking.

+++

The door to his room opens, but Danny doesn’t move. He’s still on the floor of the bathroom where he’s been for he doesn’t know how long. He’s lost track of time, seconds feeling like minutes, minutes like hours. The phone’s ringing, _still_ ringing, but then it suddenly stops mid-ring and doesn’t start up again.

Danny hears his name as the bathroom door opens. Then there’s the soft thud of knees against the tile and the feel of hands on him – familiar hands, strong and warm, in his hair, on his skin. Something uncoils inside him at the touch.

“Jesus, Danny.” Steve’s voice is halfway broken. 

Danny opens his eyes to meet Steve’s in the dim light. “My brother called me.” His own voice sounds rusty, feels coarse in his throat. “It’s everywhere, Steven.” And this. This is just the beginning.

Steve’s jaw clenches, muscles knotting as he grinds his teeth. He doesn’t say anything, just runs his hands over Danny’s skin, smoothing over the goosebumps. “Fuck, you’re freezing,” he says, pulling Danny into a sitting position. He stretches backwards and turns on the light and Danny blinks against the sudden brightness, his eyes seeking Steve’s.

Steve looks…tired, mostly. And pissed off, too, anger smoldering behind his dark eyes. They stay like that for a few moments, just looking at each other in silence.

“What happens now?” Danny finally asks.

Steve smiles a little and to Danny, it’s the saddest thing he’s ever seen. “Now we stand up,” he says, doing just that and holding out his hand. Danny takes it and pushes himself up, his knee screaming out in pain, reminding him that the world, in fact, did not end, it only slowed a little.

“Take a shower,” Steve says, “and try not to think.” He gives Danny a crooked smile at the impossibility of that propect. “I’ll be here when you get out.”

He turns and heads for the door, but Danny stops him with a hand on his wrist. Steve looks at him over his shoulder. Danny opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out, so he just holds on, unable to let him go.

Then Steve turns and pulls Danny into a tight embrace, his arms holding Danny close. Danny holds on tightly, too, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his face to the side of Steve’s neck. Something breaks in his chest then and a sob escapes before he can stop it, but he grits his teeth and holds in the rest, his throat burning with the effort.

He feels Steve’s lips on his temple, then hears his voice in his ear, warm and close. “I love you. Okay, Danny? I love you.” He grips Danny’s shoulders and takes a step back, keeping Danny close as he meets his eyes. “I should’ve said it a long time ago. I’m sorry it took me so long.” His eyes are bright with unshed tears as he slides his hand to the side of Danny’s neck, pressing his thumb to the steady thump of Danny’s pulse. His chin trembles a little before he pulls himself back under control. “Whatever else happens…” 

He can’t seem to finish, so Danny does it for him, curling his hand around Steve’s wrist. “Whatever else happens,” he says, smiling a little for the first time all morning, “we’ll always have Portland.”

Steve tries to smile. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, his smile slowly slipping away as he pulls his hand away. “See you in a few.”

+++

When Danny gets out of the shower, the room is full of steam and a pile of clothes waits for him on the lid of the toilet. He dries off and dresses, completing the rest of his morning routine by rote, and by the time he’s finished, he feels human again. A dull headache clings to the back of his skull and he shakes out a couple Advil from the bottle he keeps in his toiletry bag and swallows them with an entire glass of water, drinking another glass for good measure, then studies his face in the mirror. He still looks tired, but at least the shades of death warmed over are gone. It’s the best he can do.

Steve’s staring out the window, but turns around when he hears Danny emerge from the bathroom. His face is carefully calm, but his eyes are stormy. “Joe wants to see us,” he says.

+++

They’re in the hotel manager’s office, a small tidy space tucked behind the registration desk. The artwork is the same generic crap screwed to the walls of every guest room, but Danny studies it like it’s a long-lost Picasso. Steve’s in the chair beside him, close but not close enough, and Danny grips the arm of his own chair to keep from reaching out to him. Joe’s looking at them both across the manager’s small desk, his gaze as inscrutable as always.

“Now in a few minutes I’m gonna ask Ms. Kalakaua to come in here, but before she does, I want you boys to tell me in your own words what happened,” Joe says. He doesn’t sound angry, but with Joe it’s hard to tell sometimes. 

Steve shifts and Danny can feel him look over at him before answering. “I’m not sure what you want us to say, Joe. I assume you saw the video.”

“Who hasn’t?” Joe snaps, and there is it, the anger. Danny almost flinches at the sound of it. But then Joe reels it in, dragging his face back into neutral. His hands curl around the arms of his chair as his eyes flick back and forth between them. Seconds pass, each one marked by the muted tick of the clock on the desk. His eyes finally rest on Steve. “How long has this been going on?”

“Three months,” Steve answers without hesitation, with a calm Danny envies.

Joe’s eyes close briefly. “Three months,” he repeats under his breath, shaking his head.

“We’ve been careful, Joe.”

Joe opens his eyes again, narrowing his eyes at them. “Not careful enough, apparently,” he says. “What were you two thinking?”

“We weren’t,” Danny says. “We were drunk—”

Joe snorts. “I should hope so.” He pushes out a sigh, then stands up. He’s already in his uniform. Danny sometimes thinks it’s the only thing he owns besides the dark blue suit he wears sometimes to mandated team functions. He walks to the window and looks out, hands on his hips like he’s going toe-to-toe with an umpire over a blown call.

Steve and Danny share a look, then Steve turns his eyes on Joe. “It’s my fault,” he says. “I was sober enough to know better, but I just didn’t care. I wanted to kiss him, so I did. It’s that simple.”

Danny stares at the side of Steve’s face. Steve doesn’t look at him, just keeps his eyes on Joe. “I didn’t know there was a camera in the elevator,” he continues, finally meeting Danny’s eyes. There’s a thread of pleading in his voice that twists Danny’s heart. “But I should’ve. And I’m sorry this is happening. It’s not what I wanted.” He finally looks away, back at Joe. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little relieved.”

Danny’s eyes go wide at that and he sees Joe turn around out of the corner of his eye. “Relieved?” Joe asks. The anger’s back in his voice, hard and sharp, and this time he doesn’t try to squelch it. “That’s nice for you. Excuse me if I’m not as happy about your little coming out party as you are. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Steve’s face falls at the words, but then anger begins to set in, darkening his eyes, sharpening his jaw. Danny can almost feel it radiating off his skin. He reaches out to grab Steve’s arm, to stop him from saying something he can’t take back, but Steve shakes him off and stands up. “What I’ve done,” he says, his voice eerily calm, “is find something that makes me happy. Something outside of baseball. For the first time in my life.” He takes a couple of breaths. “Everyone else gets to have that. Why not me?”

“Everyone else isn’t fucking their shortstop!” Joe yells, then clamps his mouth shut. He closes his eyes for a beat or two, drawing in a long breath, pushing it out slowly. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I don’t understand this, son. I don’t.” He shakes his head. “I mean, what would your dad say if he knew his son was a—” He stops himself before he says it.

“A what, Joe? What am I? Come on, say it.” Steve’s anger is making his voice shaky around the edges.

Joe looks at Steve steadily. His anger is gone, sadness creeping in to take its place. “I’ve known you your whole life,” he says softly. “I watched you grow up. You’re like a son to me.”

Steve looks down at Danny, who hasn’t moved from his chair. He’s become a non-speaking member of the chorus in this two-person tragedy. Their eyes meet and Steve smiles – a fragile, beautiful thing that’s there and gone before he turns his eyes away again.

“I love him, Joe,” he says quietly. 

Danny’s throat tightens at the words. Saying it to Danny is one thing. Saying it out loud to someone else is another thing completely. He looks over at Joe, who suddenly looks older, like he’s aged a decade in the last ten minutes. He’s staring at Steve with tortured eyes, not quite able to hide his disappointment. This is a completely different Joe White than Danny’s ever seen, different from the guy who looks at his team and sees only ballplayers and nothing else. Danny can see him closing off, retreating, when Steve really needs him to reach out.

It pisses Danny off – Joe and his perceived betrayal, his reaction to this sudden change in his worldview. His unwillingness to look at Steve and see the man inside his skin, the ease with which he can allow this one thing to tarnish a lifetime of history, makes Danny want to scream at him. Anger builds behind his eyes, forcing him out of his chair. His heart is thumping against his sternum as he looks at Joe. “You’re a real son of a bitch,” he says.

“Danny.” Steve says beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Danny shakes him off, briefly meeting his eyes. “No, Steven, goddamn it. He needs to hear this.” He looks back at Joe, whose face has paled with suppressed emotion. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite, you know that? As long as Steve is what you want him to be, you love him. But if he isn’t, that’s it. Strike three, fuck off.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, son,” Joe says quietly, meeting his eyes.

“Do I?” Danny spits. “Then prove it. Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty right to me.” He brushes hand against Steve’s just to feel the connection. “He’s the same person he was yesterday, Joe. Nothing’s changed except what you know about him. And yet you look at him like he’s a stranger.” He suddenly chokes up. “He doesn’t deserve that.” He feels Steve’s fingers brush his.

A sadness settles in Joe’s eyes that is so singular and profound, Danny begins to regret his words. Joe looks at their faces and lets out a sigh. He turns his eyes to Danny. “When you’re a kid,” he says, “you want to believe that baseball is this clean and pure thing. That no matter how ugly or confusing the world around you is, at least you understand this. Hit the ball, catch the ball, run the bases. That’s it. Nothing else matters. But then you grow up and things aren’t that simple anymore. One by one, your illusions start to melt away. You start to see the cracks, to see the people instead of the game. And suddenly things that shouldn’t matter do because someone in a certain place says they do.” He looks at them both in turn. “I’ve been in this game a long time. A hell of a lot longer than both of you. And I’ve seen what can happen when it turns on you.” His eyes once again settle on Danny and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You think I’m turning my back on you, but I’m not. It’s not disgust you see on my face, Danny. It’s despair. Because I can see what’s coming and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

+++

Kono Kalakaua looks too young to be the Assistant Vice President of Public Relations for a major league baseball team. In fact, when Danny first met her, he mistook her for one of the counselors at the Warrior Kings summer baseball camp, which is probably why, to this day, she still sometimes calls him ‘sport.’ Turns out, she’s Chin’s cousin, which between them and the McGarretts, pretty much makes the Kings a two-family dynasty.

“First things first,” she says from her perch on the corner of the hotel manager’s desk. “The kid who leaked the video has been fired. It’s a token gesture on the hotel’s part, but it’s a bit too little, too late. Not that the little shit doesn’t deserve to get canned, but the damage has been done.” She’s looking at them with a neutral expression. No anger, no pity, just business, and Danny’s grateful. To her, this is just another problem to be solved instead of a major moral crisis. It’s almost soothing.

She stands, slipping behind the desk and retrieving a black dry erase marker from the tray at the base of the whiteboard. Popping off the cap, she writes two words in huge block letters on the board.

NO COMMENT.

She replaces the marker’s cap with a crisp click and taps the board with it. “You see these words?” she says. “Memorize them. They’re your answer to everything. If someone asks you the time, you say no comment. Where’s the john? No comment. Isn’t a beautiful fucking day? No comment. Until further notice, these are the only two words you know. Any questions?”

“No comment,” Danny says.

Kono grins at that. “Atta boy, sport,” she says, winking. She points at him, looking at Steve and Joe. “See? He gets it.”

The clock ticks each second past, one into the next into the next. It’s starting to make Danny crazy. He’s been in here all morning, it seems, hiding away from the world, and he’s going a little stir-crazy. And while he’s not exactly keen to get started on the whole no comment thing, he thinks that if he stays in here any longer, he might just pick up the motherfucking clock and throw it across the room. 

He stands up and drags his fingers through his hair. He looks at Kono. “No comment? Fine. But if that’s all you’ve got, then Steve and I are fucked. And not in the way everyone’s already imagining.” He looks at Joe, at Steve, then back at Kono. “What do I tell my daughter when she calls me crying because some kid at school called her dad a faggot? What do I say to my mother when she tells me I’m breaking her heart?” His throat gets tight and he grits his teeth against it. “I know it’s not your job to give a shit about any of this, but this is bigger than the goddamn Warrior Kings. There’s no containing it. And yet I’m sitting here listening to you formulate a game plan like any of it’s going to make a difference. We’re queers, Kono. That’s all anyone’s going to see. And no amount of no comments is going to change that.”

A heavy silence descends. Danny can feel Steve’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t turn to meet them. He thinks if he does, that if he looks and sees his own pain reflected back at him, then he just might break. “Fuck this,” he says instead. “I’ve gotta get out of here.”

He turns to leave, but feels a small, slim hand circle his wrist, stopping him. “Danny,” she says, and the softness of her voice makes his chest ache. When he turns to look at her, he’s surprised to see tears in her eyes. “For what it’s worth,” she says, “it’s not all I see.” She holds his eyes for a moment, then lets go of his wrist. “Be careful, okay?”

He wants to say something, to thank her for what she just said, to tell her how much it meant, but he doesn’t trust his voice and simply nods instead. 

There’s a sea of reporters camped out on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, and they come to life when they see Danny, snapping his photo and shoving microphones in his face. He just lowers his head and walks right through them, not even listening to their questions. 

He doesn’t utter a single word. Not even ‘no comment.’ 

+++

“There you are.” 

Danny looks up, squinting against the light. He’s been hiding out in a half-empty equipment room down the hall from the visitors’ clubhouse at The P for a while now. When he left the hotel, he hadn’t meant to come here, but here he is at the ballpark, like a fly to honey. He should’ve locked the door. Or gone somewhere, anywhere else.

Steve’s silhouetted in the doorway, his hand on the doorknob. Danny wishes he could see his face. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

He sees Steve nod. “It reeks in here.”

“At least it’s quiet.”

Steve doesn’t respond for a few seconds and Danny can almost feel what’s coming. 

“It’s on TV, Danny,” Steve finally says. “All the major news channels. ESPN. MLB Network.”

Danny huffs a breath. “I’m shocked,” he says sarcastically. “ESPN usually tries their best to pretend we don’t exist.”

“You’ve gotta admit, even this one’s hard to ignore.” Danny can tell Steve’s trying for light and failing.

“The guys here yet?” Today’s getaway day, which means an early game, and the clubhouse opens at 10AM. Danny doesn’t know what time it is. He’s running on virtually no sleep and his circadian rhythms are all fucked up.

“Some of them.”

“And?”

“Crickets, mostly.”

“How long do you think that’ll last?”

Steve shrugs. “Until someone works up the nerve to ask us who bottoms.”

Danny nearly chokes on his tongue. “They wouldn’t.” He stands up quickly, pushing with his left leg to relieve the pressure on his knee, which feels mushy and swollen. “Would they?”

The shadows on Steve’s face shift as his cheek lifts in a small smile. “Just remember what Kono said,” he says.

Danny tries to smile, too. “No comment.”

+++

Surprisingly, both Danny and Steve are in the starting lineup. Danny wants to tell Joe he can’t play today because of his knee, but he doesn’t. Even if it’s the truth, it’ll sound like an excuse and despite his lingering urge to run as far away as he can, the last thing he wants is to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him sit the bench. So he squeezes his increasingly swollen knee into his brace and pretends it doesn’t hurt.

Steve’s right about the crickets. The pregame clubhouse feels like a less cheery version of a mausoleum, with everyone hiding inside their earbuds and avoiding eye contact. The lone exception to this is Chin, who pulls a chair over to Steve and Danny’s lockers and sits down in it backwards. Folding his arms over the back of it, he looks at Danny.

“How’s your knee?”

Danny’s already in his uniform pants, so Chin can’t see the swelling. “It’s okay.” In the empty silence, their voices sound too loud.

Chin looks skeptical. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how’s your pain?”

Danny glares at him. “Well, right now, the pain in my ass is about a 10.” He means it to be sarcastic, but realizes a heartbeat too late how it sounds instead and feels himself flush.

Chin’s eyes go wide. He leans in towards Steve. “Jesus, brah,” he says so only the three of them can hear, smiling softly as he looks at Danny. “Go easy on the guy.” 

Danny groans and buries his head in his hands. He’s not sure which is worse: his teammates’ silent hostility or Chin’s cheerful acceptance. On a scale of 1 to 10, they’re both about a 6.

+++

In the pregame meeting, Joe gets right to the point. “I know you’re all aware of the media shitstorm swirling around this team right now. It’s unfortunate, but it can’t be helped. A lot of stuff is being said by a lot of different people. Don’t let it distract you. We’re in first place. Do not forget that. And we fought hard to get here.” He looks around, capturing as many eyes as he can in one glance. “ _All of us._ But we’re not done yet. We still have a month to go. And we’re going to need all of us to get where we want to be. Whatever your feelings are, whether you agree or disagree, like it or don’t, leave it at the door. There’s no place for it here. Inside the clubhouse and out on the field, we’re a team, and I expect you to act like one. And if I hear of anyone doing or saying anything that contradicts that, they will answer to me. There is no compromise in this. Am I understood?”

Silence.

The game, unsurprisingly, is a fucking disaster. Danny asks to be pulled in the 4th inning after a sharp pivot at second makes his knee swell up to the point that he can hardly bend it. By the sixth, the boos are so loud and incessant that Joe finally capitulates, pinch hitting for Steve, who sinks heavily onto the end of the dugout bench next to Danny and stares out through the railing at nothing. When the realization hits that both of them are out of the game, there’s a resounding chorus of cheers. Danny gets up and moves to the other end of the bench.

Along the first base side, right behind the Bombers’ dugout, someone is holding up a sign that says ALL HAIL THE WARRIOR QUEENS. All Danny has to do is look across the diamond to see it. Everyone else in the dugout can see it too, of course, which is probably the point. 

The Kings lose big, 14-2. But at least they’re still tied for first.

After the game, three guys walk out of the showers when Danny walks in and as he stands there under the water with his hands pressed to the tile, he finally gives in, letting his resolve slip a little. But only a little. By the time he dries off and emerges wrapped in a towel, his game face is once again securely in place.

+++

Miracle of miracles, the flight home is a charter, and Danny limps his way to the back of the plane to commandeer an entire row for himself. He throws his bag in the overhead bin and sinks down into the window seat, buckling his seatbelt as Steve settles into the row across from him. They’ve barely spoken since the game ended, sitting side-by-side in silence on the bus all the way to the airport like strangers. It feels out of sync, like watching a movie with bad dubbing, but Danny doesn’t know how to fix it. 

He’s exhausted. He can hardly believe that barely 12 hours have passed since his brother’s phone call changed his life. Feels more like a week. The sun’s still out, for fuck’s sake, which seems inherently wrong somehow. He wonders how many more calls he’s gotten since then. A lot is probably an understatement and imagines his phone exploding into a little mushroom cloud from all the voicemails. He hasn’t even seen it since that morning, assumes it’s in his bag, the one Steve packed for him and brought to the stadium. But he wouldn’t really care if it wasn’t. He supposes he should get a new one with a new number, anyway. 

“Danny.” Steve’s voice is so soft, he barely hears it above the din of his teammates settling in.

Danny looks over. Steve looks as tired as Danny feels and he has the sudden urge to just reach out and touch him, to make sure he’s really there. But he doesn’t. “Yeah?”

Steve opens his mouth to say something, closes it again. Then he shakes his head. “Nothing.”

They look at each other for a long moment before Steve finally turns to look out the window. Danny just studies his profile. The words he wants to say are right there on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t seem to make himself say them. He finally gives up, turning to look out his own window.

When the plane takes off, Danny pulls open his seatbelt, stretches his legs across the two empty seats beside him, and looks across the aisle at Steve, who meets his eyes briefly before they slide shut.

He alternates between actually sleeping and pretending to sleep all the way to Honolulu.

+++

There’s a mob of local press waiting for them outside the airport when they land, snapping photos like vultures and shouting out questions, none of which are about Lombo’s perfect game or the Kings’ recent surge to the top of the standings. Kono takes charge, walking into the lion’s den and making it clear that any and all questions will be directed to her and her only, diverting their attention away from the team as they file quickly towards the bus.

Danny tries to look inconspicuous, walking quickly past them, jaw set, eyes facing front. He doesn’t know where Steve is. Steve had tried to talk to him as they got off the plane, but Danny had shaken him off, putting as much space between them as he could, grabbing his bag and walking away. He hates himself for it, but right now it’s all he can do. Because he feels like he’s going crazy, like he’s about to crawl out of his skin. He needs space, time to think, and being near Steve hurts too much right now.

Amazingly enough, standing a short distance from the knot of reporters is a small collection of Kings fans, cheering the team as they walk past and holding up signs of congratulations. The cheers get a little louder as Danny gets closer and he looks up in surprise, the warm welcome so unexpected. Front and center is Kamekona, big as life and impossible to miss, grinning as he holds up the front page of that day’s _Star-Advertiser_ ’s sports section. The headline reads “Kings of the West” and sits atop a photo of Lombo celebrating his perfect game, arms thrown in the air in triumph. It’s a great headline and everything the kid deserves. Danny will never forgive himself for ruining it. He meets Kamekona’s eyes over the top of the paper as he walks past and tries to return the man’s smile.

“Congratulations, brah,” Kamekona says over the crowd. “We’re proud of you.”

+++

When Danny walks into his apartment and finds Rachel and Grace sitting side-by-side on his sofa, he actually drops his keys on the floor, his mouth falling open in silent shock.

“Danno!” Grace yells, sliding off the sofa and propelling herself against his body, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist and pressing her cheek to his chest. Danny hugs her back, holding her against him, his hand gently cupping her cheek as he dips his head to press a kiss to the top of hers. He just holds her, keeping her close even after he feels her grip loosen, not daring to let her go for fear he might collapse into a heap on the floor.

Finally Grace squirms impatiently, her hands pushing against him. “Daddy,” she protests, the word muffled against Danny’s chest.

Danny reluctantly lets her go and holds her out at arms’ length, smiling down at her.

“You’re crying,” she says. “Are you okay?”

He wipes at his eyes, surprised to find that his lashes are a little wet. “I’m okay, baby. I’m just so happy to see you,” he tells her. He looks up at Rachel. “You and your mom both.”

Rachel’s standing a few feet away, like an outsider looking in, gazing at him with shining eyes. “We thought you could use a couple of friendly faces,” she says, trying to smile.

Danny’s not sure he’s ever loved her more in his life than he does at that moment.

+++

Grace falls asleep between them on the sofa and Danny carries her to her room and tucks her in. When he comes back out, Rachel’s peering at him over the back of the sofa.

“You look like shit, Danny,” she says.

Danny snorts. He thinks that’s probably an understatement, considering how he feels. “I’m just tired,” he says. He sinks into the sofa and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes before dragging his hands down his face. He looks over at her. “My body’s still on Pacific Time. To me it feels like 3AM.” It’s more than that, of course, and they both know it. Rachel probably knows him better than anyone, even better than Steve. Being married to someone for nearly a decade is like having all the cheat codes to every video game ever.

She shifts closer to him, tucking her feet underneath her and covering his hand with her own. Resting her head along the back of the sofa, she just looks at him in silence for a long time. Finally she says, “Tell me about him.”

Danny meets her eyes. She doesn’t look angry or disgusted. He’s seen those emotions often enough on her face over the years to know what they look like on her and they’re just not there. All he sees in her eyes is a friend and he’s so fucking grateful he can hardly breathe. 

So he tells her. Everything, all of it, the words just spilling out. He’s not sure why he does it except that she asked when no one else has. And she just lets him, without interruption, her eyes never leaving his face.

When he’s finished, she just looks at him in silence and Danny forces himself not to turn away. He remembers that look, the way she always seemed able to see right through him, past all his bullshit and right to the truth. It’s one of the things he both loved and hated about her when they were married. 

“You love him,” she says.

The words hit Danny right in the gut, twisting there like a fist, and he turns away, clenching his jaw and closing his eyes. She just put a voice to his biggest secret, pulling it out and holding it under the light. It’s the one thing he’s tried the hardest to hide, even from himself. Hearing the words out loud hurts in a way he’s never felt before.

Her fingers curl warmly around his. “If you need someone to tell you it’s okay, Danny,” she says softly, “then _I’m_ telling you.” She squeezes his hand. “It’s okay to love him.”

+++

Danny thinks briefly about parking a couple of blocks over and walking along the beach to get to Steve’s house, but decides against it. What the hell would be the point? The proverbial cat has long since escaped from the bag. So he parks in Steve’s driveway instead and doesn’t even try to be inconspicuous as he walks up to the front door. He doesn’t hear the snap of twigs or the click of camera shutters, but right now he wouldn’t care if he did. His hand trembles as he knocks on the door.

When Steve answers, Danny can’t decide if he looks half asleep or like he hasn’t slept at all.

“Hey,” he says. “I know it’s late. I tried calling.” It’s not what he wants to say, but they’re the first words that come out. “I should’ve known you’d have your phones turned off.”

Steve just looks at him. “You have a key, Danny,” he says. 

Danny can’t read anything from Steve’s voice – no anger, no sadness, nothing. He doesn’t know what to think about that. “I know, but…” He pushes out a breath. “Can I come in?”

Steve pauses a moment, then steps aside, and Danny pushes past him, his shoulder brushing against Steve’s chest. It’s the most they’ve touched in hours.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Steve says as he closes the door, the deadbolt sliding into place. He turns to look at Danny. It’s dark inside the house, moonlight streaming in around the blinds and pooling on the floor at Steve’s feet. He crosses his arms over his chest like a shield. “I got the impression you didn’t want to see me for a while.”

Danny meets his eyes. “I know. I’m sorry about that. I just. It felt like the world was closing in. Like I couldn’t breathe. So I pushed you away. I thought distance would help.” He shakes his head. “But it didn’t.”

“It’s okay,” Steve says softly. A couple seconds pass as his fingers play with the fraying edge of his shirtsleeve. “Danny, I. I’d understand if…if you wanted to stop.”

The hesitation in his voice, the thread of pain in it, cuts Danny to the quick. “That’s not what I want,” he says, shaking his head, his heart thudding in his chest. “I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m scared as hell, but…that’s not what I want.”

The shadows on Steve’s face shift as he turns his face away and closes his eyes. “Then tell me what you want, Danny,” he says after a moment, looking back at Danny. There’s a note of pleading in his voice. “Please. Because I—”

“I love you.” The words sound loud in the quiet. Something uncoils in Danny’s chest when he says them.

Steve’s arms fall to his sides and Danny hears him slowly breathe out, the tension gradually draining from his shoulders. “Yeah?” he asks. The pure, unadulterated hope in his voice nearly breaks Danny’s heart.

He smiles a little instead. “God only knows why,” he says. “But yeah.”

Steve smiles, too, and closes the distance between them. He pulls Danny into a hug and Danny returns the gesture automatically, wrapping his arms around Steve and holding on. It feels nice to be held like this, to feel the warmth and solidness of Steve’s body against his. It feels safe and exactly like where he belongs.

+++

In the morning, Danny wakes up to the feel of a swim-damp Steve curling around him as he sneaks back into bed, pressing a kiss to the back of Danny’s neck. Danny snuggles back against him and pulls Steve’s arm tighter around him, feeling Steve’s lips curve into a smile as he pushes his leg between Danny’s. Steve’s skin smells like the ocean.

“What time is it?” Danny asks, not opening his eyes.

“Early yet,” Steve says softly, settling in. “Go back to sleep.”

Later, Danny wakes Steve up for sex. It’s frantic and urgent and needy, all skin and breath and wordless noise, and when it’s over, Steve touches Danny’s face and kisses him tenderly.

And Danny finally lets himself cry, really cry, for the first time since this whole thing started. 

+++

Samuel Denning became the first African-American commissioner of baseball in 2010 when his predecessor, Patrick Jameson, was forced to resign amidst allegations of corruption by both the Major League Baseball Players Association (MLBPA) and the Department of Justice. Already in his brief tenure, Denning’s established himself as a strong-willed, decisive leader who’s slowly dragging the sport kicking and screaming into the 21st century. His most controversial change to date was the implementation of instant replay eight months ago, which held the umpires more accountable, made the game more fair, and offended the delicate sensibilities of quote-unquote baseball purists who insist that the antiquated and cherished “human element” is simply part of the game. The players and coaches lauded the decision, however, and a recent poll of MLB employees reflected an unprecedented 92% approval rate – a rating his friend, the President, would envy.

The day after the scandal breaks, Commissioner Denning holds a televised press conference at his office in New York City. In attendance are a slew of local and national media; representatives from every major league team as well as the Major League Umpires Association and the MLBPA; the Department of Justice; the American Civil Liberties Union; and other interested parties. Outside the building, protesters on both sides of the issue scream at each other from both sides of the street.

Danny and Steve watch it on the TV in Joe’s office, just the two of them.

Denning gets right down to business and keeps it short and sweet. “Every team in major league baseball,” he says, “is an Equal Opportunity Employer. As such, the rights of those employed under that umbrella will be protected to the fullest extent of the law. The Office of the Commissioner does not condone nor will it tolerate discrimination of any kind, and anyone found in violation of any part of the law will be dealt with accordingly.”

Pausing, he looks around the vast room, unfazed by the incessant pop of camera flashes. Then he looks back towards the camera. His fingers curl around the edges of the podium, his face softening, and when he speaks again, his voice is more personal.

“The world has changed a lot since baseball began,” he says, “and we’ve done a lot of changing with it. There was a time when people like me couldn’t even play. And now it would be impossible to make a list of the game’s greatest players without including names like Jackie Robinson and Roberto Clemente. Henry Aaron and David Ortiz. Each one of these men possesses a characteristic that once upon a time was considered undesirable. Considered bad for baseball. And yet look at what we would’ve missed if this closed-minded attitude had been allowed to stand. Each of these men, in his own way, changed the game forever. They shaped it into the game we all cherish. They made it better. And just by having the opportunity to watch them play, they made us better, too.

“We’ve come a long way. But we’re not there yet. There’s still a lot of work to be done. There are still people in this game who live in fear because of who they are. This is unacceptable to me. And it should be unacceptable to you, too. We can’t close our eyes and pretend that the long road ahead of us doesn’t exist. We have to keep moving, keep pushing. We have to keep learning from each other. And for some of us, it might hurt a little. Change is hard. But hard-won victories are the sweetest kind. I know in my heart that together we can get to where we need to be. That together we can continue to make the sport of baseball the greatest one on Earth.”

Danny thinks it isn’t bad as far as speeches go, but in the end it’s just that: a speech. A collection of words carefully arranged for maximum dramatic effect. Sure, they’re nice words, but they’re not a magic bullet, and no amount of them is going to make some people look at Steve and Danny as anything other than deviant freaks.

Reactions to the speech differ drastically, of course, depending on who’s doing the reacting. And an impromptu poll of players and coaches taken the next day shows Commissioner Denning’s approval rating plummeting 24 points to 68%. It’s a less than scientific poll, of course, but it’s enough to prove Danny’s point.

In the days immediately following Denning’s statement, nothing much changes.

+++

There are hardly any boos anymore when Danny comes to the plate, but he figures it’s more out of boredom than acceptance. It’s been 19 days since the scandal broke and self-righteous outrage generally burns too hot to last very long. Sustained disgust takes too much energy. Apathy takes a lot less effort.

Over their last 16 games, the Kings have derailed, going 4-12 and falling quietly into third place, seven games behind the division-leading Bombers and two games out of the wild card race. It hurts to watch it happen, to go out there every day and see it slip away, to see the disappointment on the faces of his teammates after each loss and know they blame him for it. But all he can do is what he’s always done: do the best he can and hope it’s good enough.

+++

> Some people blame them for the team’s collapse last September, saying their actions caused profound damage to the team’s chemistry that was impossible to repair. “They’re not completely wrong,” Danny says. “There’s an element of trust among teammates. And it’s a very fragile thing. Break it and it’s hard to go back, to get back what you’ve lost. We never outright lied to anyone, but we weren’t truthful, either. Lies of omission, I guess you’d call them. And the way it all went down, with the media breathing down our necks…it was hard for some guys to take. There was a lot of resentment.”
> 
> He refuses to answer directly when I ask him whether any of their teammates were blatantly homophobic towards them in the days following the scandal. Instead he says, “People have different beliefs. I don’t necessarily agree with them and sometimes they even make me angry, but they have a right to them. You can’t control people’s feelings no matter how much you may want to. The first couple of weeks right after it happened were really tough. There were a lot of things said in anger by myself and others. A lot of things I regret. But it’s over now, in the past. People learn to adjust. I’ve done my best to move on.”
> 
> But what about other players who may be in his situation, I ask him. Does he think it’ll ever get easier for them? “I honestly don’t know,” he says. “There’s a certain culture of sameness in baseball, in sports in general, really. There are these rules, these molds everyone has to fit into. And yes, you try to stand out by being the best hitter or the best fielder, the best base stealer or whatever. But you’re expected to do it within the confines of this mold. Anyone who doesn’t fit feels all this insane pressure to conform. I really hope that changes someday. I think it will, but it’ll take some time.”
> 
> It seems like it’s already changed for Steve, who’s currently in Arizona preparing for his second season as the Kings’ second baseman. “Steve’s just Steve. He’s an exception to everything,” Danny says, chuckling. “I watched this show once about dark matter. It’s this stuff in space that affects everything around it, yet no one can define it. That’s Steve in a nutshell. He changes things just by being present. The team’s success last year, before the shit hit the fan, that was because of him. And I don’t mean to take away from the rest of the team because success like that is definitely a team effort. But it’s like this. Except for Steve, everyone on the team last year was on it in 2010. And we finished 36 games back. Last season we were in first place before it all fell apart. What was the difference? Steve McGarrett. He makes everyone around him better. Young guys want to impress him, they want his approval. Older guys just want to keep up.” He flashes that self-deprecating smile again. “He’s a catalyst. And that’s something really hard to replace.”
> 
> Right before we’re about to leave Kamekona’s, Danny taps the table with the tip of his index finger. “This is our table. Steve’s and mine,” he says. “No one ever sits here but us. Kamekona won’t let them.” He laughs, and something a lot like contentment fills his eyes. “I know it’s stupid, but I’ve never had a table with anyone before. It’s kinda nice.”

+++

**Epilogue: December 2015**

Right after it happened, Danny couldn’t stop dreaming about it, every detail in crystalline relief, playing over and over again behind his eyes. Victor Hesse’s spikes heading right towards him – ostensibly to break up the double play, but Danny knows the truth. His knee bending the wrong way, tendons tearing, skin shredding, cartilage shattering like glass. Falling towards the ground in what felt like slow motion, hat flying off, landing face down in the dirt. Bile clawing at the back of his throat from the pain. Blood soaking into the fabric of his uniform pants. Steve’s face, pale and terrified, right next to his, choking on Danny’s name as his hand curled soothingly around the back of Danny’s head. The sound of Hesse muttering “fucking faggots” as he stood over them, admiring his handiwork.

These days, when Danny has that dream, he changes the ending. Instead of his knee getting torn to shreds by Victor Hesse’s spikes, he jumps gracefully over them just like he did as a kid, completing the double play with an airborne frozen rope to first. Inning over. The Kings go on to win the game, the division, the World Series. And everything’s forgiven.

He’s having that dream now. Sharp ground ball to second, Danny running from short to cover the bag, his glove out to receive the toss. Steve flips the ball perfectly into the web of his mitt, just like a thousand times before, Danny’s toe grazing the corner of the base for the force out as Hesse slides hard, spikes up. Danny pulls the ball from his glove to make the throw to first as he jumps—

“Wake up, Danno.”

Danny opens his eyes. Steve’s standing next to their bed, wide awake and fully dressed, holding a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. It’s early yet. So early, in fact, that the light filtering in around the curtains looks suspiciously like the dreary gray of just-past-dawn that Danny’s vowed to never see again. He glares up at Steve from his blanket cocoon.

“Fuck off,” he croaks. “Some of us are retired.” He pulls the blankets over his head and burrows deeper into the pillow.

“Fine,” Steve says in that singularly annoying way he has of packing a sentence’s worth of nuance into one syllable. “But I’m not the one who’s going to explain it to Max.”

Max is Max Bergman, Danny’s literary agent and the undisputed king of passive-aggressive revenge. He once arranged a reading for Danny at a 55+ clothing-optional resort after Danny refused to accompany him to a Star Wars convention dressed as an Ewok. Danny had never seen so many naked old people in one room before. Steve didn’t stop laughing for a week, the bastard.

“Max can kiss my ass.”

The edge of the blanket lifts, gray light pressing against his eyelids. “What was that?” Steve asks, amused.

Danny cracks one eye open and looks up at Steve. “I said,” he says, “Max Bergman can die in a fire. Sooner rather than later.”

Steve frowns. “Someone’s grumpy this morning.”

“Someone,” Danny says, rolling over onto his back, “didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

Steve smiles placidly. “And whose fault is that, hmm?” he asks, resting his hands on his hips.

“Yours.”

Steve’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline. “I wasn’t the one who rolled over and grabbed my dick at 2AM.”

Danny smirks. “You didn’t say no.”

That smile again. “Of course not. No one says no to nookie.”

“Nookie?” Danny groans. “Next you’ll be wearing black socks with sandals and watching _Wheel of Fortune_.”

“Says the guy who thinks ketchup is too spicy.”

“Not too spicy, Steven. Too sweet. If you’re going to insult me, at least get it right.” He stares up Steve, who’s looking back at him with smiling eyes. Steve’s temples are a little grayer and his squint lines more pronounced, but he’s just as beautiful as ever.

“You’re hot,” Danny says, smiling. 

Steve laughs. “No one says ‘hot’ anymore, Danny.”

“Of course they do,” Danny says, tucking his hands behind his head. “It’s timeless. Hot has been used to describe the sexual desirability of humanoids since the very first caveman pointed at the very first cavewoman and grunted.”

Steve grins. “So does that mean you find me sexually desirable—” He tilts his head. “—or you think I’m a caveman?”

“I don’t grab just anyone’s dick, Steven,” Danny says. He smiles again. “But sometimes you do act a little…Cro-Magnon Man.”

Steve waggles his eyebrows. “Me Tarzan, you Ja—”

Danny cuts him off by hooking his fingers through Steve’s belt loop and pulling him onto the bed. Rolling them over, he pins Steve to the bed, pressing his knees against Steve’s hips. “Finish that sentence and spend the next week getting reacquainted with your hand.”

“Jane,” Steve says. When he sees the look on Danny’s face, he laughs. “Hollow words, Daniel. You’ll be singing a different tune when 2AM rolls around.” He shifts his body and Danny can feel that he’s half hard. 

Danny dips his head and kisses him, slow and wet, sliding his hands up to tangle their fingers together. Steve tastes like coffee and toothpaste. “What time is it now?” he murmurs against Steve’s lips.

Steve groans, pulling away reluctantly. “Nearly time to call Max and tell him we’ll be late.”

“Max,” Danny laments, resting his forehead on Steve’s cheek. “Destroyer of perfectly good morning wood.”

“Hey, that rhymes.”

Danny lifts his head and mirrors Steve’s smile. “I’m a poet and I didn’t know it.”

Steve lifts his head and kisses him quickly on the lips. “Come on,” he says. “Those books won’t sign themselves.” He grins again. “Besides, your mom’s been dressed and ready to go for an hour already. She’s very excited about today, you know. You don’t want to disappoint her, do you?”

Danny finally relents, rolling off Steve and flopping to the bed with a sigh. “Fuck my life,” he moans.

The mattress dips as Steve stands up and then Steve’s face is hovering upside down over his. “Yes, Danno,” he says, rolling his eyes. “It’s just so hard being you.” He tugs on Danny’s arm. “Now up and at ’em.”

Danny stands up and looks up at Steve who looks altogether too happy at this ungodly hour. “Remind me again why I love you?”

“Because,” Steve says, pushing Danny in the direction of the bathroom. “I make you waffles and have no gag reflex.”

Danny nods, leaning into the shower to turn on the water. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “I remember now.” He grins. “Two of my favorite things.”

He’s in the car, settled in the back seat behind his mom (“Ma, jesus christ, sit in the goddamn front seat. Steve isn’t driving Miss Daisy here.”), coffee cup in hand, when he remembers his dream, the one with the alternate ending.

It’s a nice dream, he thinks, meeting Steve’s eyes when he puts the car in reverse and turns in his seat to look out the back window. They share a smile.

But it’s got nothing on reality.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Hawaii Five-0 Big Bang challenge. Complete author's notes can be found [here](http://carryokee.dreamwidth.org/5722.html).
> 
> Artwork will be available soon!


End file.
